Casting Stones at the River: Ficlet set
by Goblin Cat KC
Summary: How long do mutant turtles live? Thousands of years. Not in chronological order. OT4, multiple turtlet pairings, and some turtleslash, including Usagi, Casey and Bishop.
1. Chapter 1

**Casting Stones at the River: Drabbles 1-5**  
by KC

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the turtles.  
**Other info**: 100 drabbles focusing on fragments of a larger whole. Not in chronological order. Also, these are KC drabbles, so I reject your notion of short and substitute my own.  
**Pairings**: So far, OT4, Usagi/Leo

**Breathe**

These are the days before painkillers. Days before they have stockpiles of medical supplies stolen from their enemies. The days before easy access to alien technology and glowing crystals.

These are the days of needle and thread, too much blood and too few rags for bandages. Days of biting on the ends of a mask. Days of boiling water before you can clean a wound. Days when the only relief is--

"Breathe."

Leonardo holds his youngest brother, wraps his arms around him and edges closer, plastron to plastron, and lets Michelangelo rest his head on his shoulder.

Beside them, Donatello and Raphael stitch up the gashes on his shoulders and sides, ignoring each muffled cry in the back of Michelangelo's throat. Michelangelo chokes down a cry. He doesn't want them to rush and make it easier on him. He doesn't want them to think he's a wimp.

Bad enough that Leonardo's mothering him in front of them. Self-appointed big brother treats them like babies whenever they're hurt. And it doesn't help that no one ever tells him to stop.

He hisses as the needles plunge in again, another rag wipes away blood, and he holds Leonardo harder. The world is disjointed, time comes in starts and stops. His brothers feel like sewing machines on open wounds.

"Breathe," he whispers. "You know how to do this."

Ragged, choking, catching in his throat when Raphael tugs the thread, Michelangelo mimics Leonardo's rhythm and falls into the place pain can't follow. He's made clumsy by the blood cooling on his legs and by never before meditating while injured. The stitching, the burning and icy shudders under his shell make it past his focus, and his mind stumbles.

"Breathe...come on, focus. I know you can. You do this all the time in practice, no problem."

No smartass comment about not bleeding out during practice. Michelangelo focuses on Leonardo's voice. The pain is left behind with bloody rags and muscles that slowly relax and let Raphael and Donatello work easier. He breathes fast, breathes shallow.

Breathes slower. Breathes deeper.

Breathes.

**Comfort**

Months have passed. The pain should have passed with it. But a trip through Central Park, even passing by over the rooftops, brought back the fist in Raphael's stomach. No one else in New York knew that Central Park was a cemetery for one.

He avoided it when he could, taking detours or heading underground to avoid the park, but sometimes he came here without telling anyone where he was going. Tonight he'd argued with Leonardo--bad, worse than usual, but then they seemed worse than usual lately. Since Splinter's death, fearless leader had grown more paranoid, scolding him for smaller and smaller things.

Raphael crossed the small wood bridge to spite Leonardo even though he wasn't here. The mother hen wanted them to avoid paths that humans used. But the path was the easiest way to reach Splinter's grave, and he sat down against a large boulder and listened to the stream trickle down the rocks behind him.

There was no marker. They couldn't risk someone finding his body and looking for other mutants. He didn't think Splinter would have minded. Returning back to the earth without leaving physical reminders seemed like something he'd like. Humans got to look at names chiselled on stone and leave flowers. If he left flowers here, they'd look like they'd been kicked there absently, or maybe like a kid had buried an animal there. He didn't know why the absence of a marker bothered him, but it did.

He didn't talk to the ground. Why bother? He knew Splinter wasn't there. No one would hear him. He could scream like a teenager who couldn't get his way, demand someone listen to him, repeat all of Splinter's lectures back to his face--but he couldn't give the lectures Splinter's sense of patience and warmth.

He curled up on the grass and closed his eyes.

A hand on his shoulder woke him. Drowsy and shivering under a light layer of dew, he briefly glanced at Leonardo standing over him and tried to ignore him. That wasn't easy when Leonardo was helping him to his feet and turning him towards home like a child that had fallen asleep on the couch and needed to be put to bed. Neither spoke. Surprised he wasn't being scolded, Raphael figured they both knew they'd argue again if they said anything.

It was nice to walk next to Leonardo without yelling at him and without being yelled at.

**Song**

Usagi didn't know anyone else who liked the sound of cicadas. Through the day, throughout the night, the constant drone drilled into his head. But Leonardo not only didn't mind it, he drowsed in the summer heat, lulled by the constant hum.

The route Usagi wandered took him far from Lord Noriyuki's lands, away from anyone he knew. Occasionally he ran across Kitsune or Chizu, other acquaintances and friends he knew intimately, but nothing lasted longer than a few moments. Only Leonardo joined him for any length of time.

Like two trees planted nearby, their branches touched when the breeze blew just right. They couldn't be together forever. Ninja and samurai, day and night, they could only meet at twilight and dawn, mingle for a few days or weeks together and then drift apart again. Usagi would soon return home to see Jotaro, to see Katsuichi. Leonardo would return home to his brothers and their continuing clan war.

Usagi looked to his left and watched Leonardo sleep. What they had was not exclusive. Neither expected it to be. Neither even mentioned it. On the long stretch of road between towns where even lonely country inns were rare, Leonardo simply accompanied him, watched fireflies with him, helped him out of fights and helped him stumble into many more.

And if Usagi dragged his feet to make the days last longer, Leonardo didn't complain. The song of the cicada lasted long into summer, but company on his lonely road comforted him more than a quiet night's sleep.

**Forever**

The more he stared at the DNA matrix spiraling on his monitor, the more Donatello felt sick inside. His third experiment gave him the same result as the first two. Shaking his head, he went to the small refrigerator in the corner of his laboratory and took out a vial of Raphael's blood. Refilling his coffee cup, he sat down and ran the experiment once more.

When his alarm clock beeped, telling him it was time to wake up, he had the same results from Raphael's blood and Leonardo's blood. The mishmash of circuits and devices stolen from Bishop and Stockman and recovered from the Utrom's building blinked around him. Tempted to smash it all on the floor, he instead set a sample of Michelangelo's blood in the computer for initial spectral analysis and leaned back in his chair to wait. Despite the advanced technology, each step took hours.

He yawned, and the room blurred as his head nodded down on his chest. His eyes fluttered, his breathing slowed, his hands fell slack--

--the coffee cup clattered to the floor. Donatello jerked awake and pushed his chair back, but the cup hadn't broken and there had been nothing in it to spill. He breathed out and set it back on the table.

A soft knock at the door made him smile. His big brother entered quietly, making just enough noise to let Donatello know he was there. In the past, they'd all startled him too often when he was absorbed in his work, and none of them would risk his irritated snapping now.

"I know, I know," Donatello sighed. "Another all nighter."

"You can't keep doing this to yourself," Leonardo said.

He bent and touched Donatello's hand, nuzzling his cheek. Weeks after Splinter's death, he was learning to temper his "mother-henning" so he didn't exasperate his brothers as much as they occasionally exasperated him. Like Michelangelo often told him, a kiss made a lecture easier to swallow.

"I know," Donatello said around another yawn, but he smiled over his shoulder. "Just like you shouldn't practice all night, yeah?"

"Yeah," Leonardo said with a rueful laugh. "Come with me to bed? Can it wait 'till later?"

Standing before he answered, Donatello turned the monitor off and left the program running.

"Sure," Donatello murmured. "I might have all the time in the world to wait."

**Clown**

Leonardo didn't argue. He didn't stumble to the bathroom, but he kept his hand along the wall to steady himself. He didn't pass out, but he swayed and felt as if he was deep underwater. It was all he could do to follow Raphael's order to go upstairs.

As he nodded and went up to the bathroom, he thought about the look on Raphael's face. It was one Raphael wore often, worried and angry that he was worried, but Leonardo had never seen it softened by surprise before. Leonardo rarely gave in to demands, even when hurt.

Only when he touched cool tile instead of steel walls did he realize he was in the bathroom. Not bothering with the lights, he left the door open and walked to the back stall. Leaning hard against the far wall, he turned and slid to the floor, closing his eyes.

"Mind if I join ya?"

He didn't have the energy to answer. When Michelangelo sat beside him, Leonardo slumped to one side and rested against his shoulder.

"Don't fall asleep," Michelangelo warned him. "You took a nasty whack back there."

"If it's a concussion, there's not much we could do anyway," Leonardo mumbled.

"So don't jinx it."

Michelangelo reached over and turned the shower faucet, starting a gentle rush of cold water that slowly turned warm. He soaked one of the cloths hanging nearby and began rinsing the blood and concrete dust from Leonardo's face and shoulders.

"You know," Michelangelo said. "Usually you're the one treating me. I don't think you've let me do this before."

"M'sure I must've," Leonardo said, relieved as the drying blood and dust was washed away. "We get hurt often enough."

"Nope, never, and I told you to stay awake."

"First time for everything, I guess."

Leonardo took a deep breath and opened his eyes, watching Michelangelo rinse off the washcloth. Sparing a moment for himself, Michelangelo eased under the water. In the relative darkness, Leonardo could only see his silhouette and a few splashes of color. The white concrete dust from the explosion clung to his bloody cuts. Then the colors vanished.

Leonardo smiled and gave a weak laugh. Hearing it, Michelangelo turned and looked at him.

"What?"

"Nothing," Leonardo said. "You just looked funny for a moment, that's all."

"You're one to talk," Michelangelo said, smiling back. "I would've been laughing if I hadn't thought the explosion would kill us."

As steam rose up from the cold tiles, Leonardo closed his eyes again and listened to Michelangelo tease him about the fight. He didn't think he'd allow himself to be taken care of like this again--at least not for a long while--but it seemed to make Michelangelo feel better. And it was reassuring to have someone sitting with him, warm hand on his face, laughing about almost dying again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Casting Stones at the River: Drabbles 6-10**  
by KC

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the turtles.  
**Other info**: 100 drabbles focusing on fragments of a larger whole. Not in chronological order. Also, these are KC drabbles, so I reject your notion of short and substitute my own.  
**Pairings**: So far, OT4, Usagi/Leo

**Wind**

The seasons pass. Tides sweep away and bring back. Mountains crumble to deserts and deserts give way to grasslands. Animals adapt, evolve and die out. The wind blows in from the ocean, cools the city, and blows out again.

Sometimes change happens faster than lightning. Sometimes it comes slow as eons. Donatello thinks he might catch it if he watches close enough, but he has to do it surreptitiously. If Raphael and Leonardo know he's watching, he could ruin everything.

Fortunately they don't seem to be aware of anything but each other. On the sofa, Leonardo and Raphael sit side by side, relaxed but motionless, as if afraid that moving would attract the other's attention. From the corner of his eye, Donatello watches from behind his coffee cup.

Seated on the floor in front of them, Michelangelo takes advantage of their distraction, switching channels rapidly and settling on techno pop music videos for half a moment, then turning to blocky cartoons about fart jokes. Michelangelo looks over his shoulder at Raphael and Leonardo, but neither says anything. He grins and changes the channel again.

Donatello would sigh and tell him to pick a show, but he doesn't want to miss what he's sure is coming. He knows their schedules. Leonardo trains while Raphael works on his bike, Leonardo meditates while Raphael practices, Leonardo grabs something from the refrigerator while Raphael grabs a power bar and heads for the showers. But tonight when they should be on opposite ends of the lair, they're within arm's reach, almost touching.

Which is good, Donatello thinks. If can live without fighting, rediscovering the camaraderie they used to have, maybe they'll finally talk to each other outside of a fight and outside of bed.

Of course that requires actually talking to each other. They most they seem capable of now are sideways glances.

Michelangelo lands on the Discovery channel and hesitates. At first Donatello thinks that he's trying to annoy everyone, but he takes a second look at Michelangelo's face. His little brother stares with wide eyes as several buildings are demolished.

"Mikey..." Leonardo sighs.

"Seriously," Raphael grumbles, "I just saw one of those up way too close."

"Yeah," Leonardo adds. "Anything else, just no explosions, please."

"Awww..." Michelangelo whines. "But they're so cool! All those bricks coming down and the big boom..."

Michelangelo doesn't change the channel. Leonardo turns and looks away, pressing his hand against his forehead as if he still has the headache from when they experienced their own big boom and falling bricks.

Without a word, without looking his way, Raphael reaches over a few inches and touches Leonardo's hand. The movement is small. Donatello almost misses it, but he catches both Raphael's touch and the way Leonardo first stiffens, then relaxes. Neither moves again.

Donatello smiles and finishes his coffee.

**Nowhere**

The chain cinches tighter around his neck when he moves. He tries not to move. The cold metal links pinch his skin anyway, rattling around his head like bones. Battered, bruised, his head swimming from too many punches to the face, Donatello sits still in a warehouse full of boxes and waits for the trap to spring.

He hates being bait.

They all hate it, but to Donatello, it feels like a personal insult. He can't help but think that maybe if he practiced a little more, trained with a little of Leonardo's obsession, some of Raphael's passion, had just an ounce of the raw talent Michelangelo frittered away, he wouldn't end up like this.

He knows it isn't true--Michelangelo ends up getting captured often enough--but captured isn't nearly as bad as being bait. Bait means time to dwell on mistakes and wonder how messily he and his brothers might die, and it's all his fault.

There are tripwires everywhere. They gleam as the sun sets. Just one will set off the explosives in the palettes around him. Leonardo is good at finding traps, but he's not as good as he likes to think he is at disarming them.

Donatello's chained like a dog on one of the palettes. He's sure the rough wood is pressure-sensitive and ready to go off the moment his weight changes. The windows are unlocked but heavy so that they'll fall inward if opened. Probably another closed circuit. Open the window, the detonator arms. Close the window, the warehouse explodes.

For a touch of drama, the Foot clan left a ticking clock on top of a stack of dynamite with wires sticking out at odd angles. It's just out of his reach, but he doubts it's real. It's just a prop to make his brothers rush in fast and stumble over every trap.

His left leg is going numb. An inch at a time, he shifts onto his right leg. He has to move carefully. If he starts to fall, he can't catch himself. His wrists are chained behind his shell.

His hands have already gone numb. He groans sometimes, frustrated being stuck in this position for so long. He can do little more than groan. His shellcell is still tucked in his belt, but even if he could pull it out and dial, he can't tell anyone where he is. The short chain they used as a gag bites into his cheeks and he can't close his mouth. The metallic tang on his tongue makes him sick.

Voices outside, hushed voices. Donatello sits straight and wonders where they'll come in.

**Fall**

Twenty feet and butterflies fill his stomach. Twenty more feet, the butterflies scatter up and out and then Michelangelo's falling without anything to distract him.

Just the thought of smashing on the pavement a hundred feet below.

For humans, the adrenalin of falling off a building can trigger a heart attack. For a turtle who's been pushed and kicked and thrown off buildings, planes, dragons and alien space ships, he's more worried that his brothers will mop up the fight before he gets back.

Turning a somersault purely for showmanship points, he catches a clothesline strung between the buildings and hangs on as one end rips free of the wall. Raphael told him about this once--just hang on as it swings and then close his eyes as he smashes through a window.

Only he doesn't smash through a window.

He slams into the brick wall, the clothesline rips completely out, and he tumbles the last fifteen feet onto a closed dumpster. He rolls off that and lands on the pavement, coming to a stop in a rainwater puddle.

"Ow."

That's not the way it's supposed to work. He lies there a moment and catches his breath, slowly easing around to see if anything's broken.

"Hang on, Mikey, I'm coming!"

Michelangelo doesn't move. He can wait for Raphael to come down here. Bruises from the corners of bricks and jutting metal don't hurt as much when they're kissed better, and they could really use the kisses.

**Moon**

Raphael grumbled to himself and stared at the moon from beneath the rain gutter.

He preferred his old blowups at Leonardo instead of these...these...whatever the hell these were. Quiet, restrained looks that were cast aside before they angered each other, sighs instead of snarls, hesitation at touching Leonardo's arm, his face.

There'd been a time when he could slam his fist into Leonardo's jaw, tackle him and wedge his knee between Leonardo's legs, forcing them apart. There'd been a time when kissing meant blood trickling from the corner of Leonardo's mouth and bruises that lasted for days. When sex meant they were still fighting and they showed how much they cared by not mutilating each other.

Now Leonardo can hope not to feel Raphael's teeth scraping his skin. Now Raphael's hand caressing the back of Leonardo's neck, flipping the ends of the mask aside with his thumb, is all the invitation needed. And if Raphael holds too hard and leaves a mark on Leonardo's skin, the mark is gone in hours.

Raphael didn't know if he liked touching his brother without hurting him. They argued too much to love gently. But if they weren't arguing--he shook his head. It was too strange to be comfortable.

But he had noticed that Leonardo seemed eager not to argue. Leonardo didn't watch him when Raphael followed him into a room. He didn't flinch if Raphael walked towards him and Leonardo didn't automatically raise his hands to attack first.

Raphael didn't know when it had started. Probably after Splinter died. Leonardo didn't snap back when Raphael vented his grief, barbs that were sharp and meant to hurt. When those didn't get a reaction, he withdrew and refused to talk to Leonardo. And when his big brother followed him or sat with him and didn't say anything, let alone yell or scold...

Lightning flashed outside. Rain followed a moment later. He watched the moon float behind the clouds and let the storm pass him by.

**Ghost**

Cavernous. High ceilings that were their first sky. Long tunnels that twisted to nowhere and deep rivers that could sweep a small turtle to the center of the earth. Leonardo expected the old lair to look just like his memories, with huge stones and bricks as big as he was.

Instead he had to walk bent forward under the ceiling and crawl to reach their first bedroom, a nook that once felt uncomfortably large and now barely held him at all.

"How's it look?" Donatello asked. His voice crackled through the earpiece's wiring, fighting to transmit through old New York's underground.

"Small," he answered. "It's a good thing Raph didn't come. He wouldn't of fit."

"Really?" Michelangelo's voice crowded the comm as if he was leaning over Donatello's shoulders. "I remember it being ginormous."

"That was back when we were small."

Leonardo pushed aside the tattered rags left of their bed. No rats or bugs skittered out. There had been no living creatures down here for decades.

"Found it," he said softly, lifting a tiny turtle statue of jade. It gleamed in the glow of his lantern, and he traced the circular design on its shell.

"Yoshi's good luck charm," Michelangelo whispered, as if it were a holy relic.

"Yup," Leonardo said, holding it close to his eye. "It's smaller than my hand."

"Be careful you don't drop it," Donatello warned him.

"Already put it away," Leonardo said, tucking it into a pouch in his belt. "I wonder why Splinter never came to get it."

"Probably 'cause if it was under there, we were safe," Michelangelo said. "Like how people bury good luck charms and swear it works as long as it stays put."

"Now I feel kinda weird taking it out," Leonardo said.

"Don't," Donatello said. "Even if that old folklore was true, it would be crushed when they demolish this section. We'll put it somewhere safer."

"You ready to come home?" Michelangelo asked. Although he tried to keep his voice light, some of his worry showed.

"Soon," Leonardo said. "But not yet. I want to see the lair one more time."

"Fearless, I told ya we didn't leave behind anything important."

Raphael's voice in his ear startled him. They hadn't fought like teenagers in decades, but being in the old sewers with Raphael calling him fearless made him tense up as if they were about to fight. Old habits died hard, if they died at all, and he made himself relax.

"I know," he said. "But I didn't worry about it before because I knew I could always come back and look. Now that they're tearing it all down--I have to be sure."

Raphael snorted, but he didn't argue again. "Okay, just don't lose track of time. You only got another day to get out."

"I'll only be a few hours." Leonardo crept back out of what he now realized was a cramped crypt of damp stone that they were lucky to have survived.

At first he had to find the old marks they'd made, arrows and symbols that only they knew, still faintly chiseled in the mortar, but as he climbed over broken pipes and through long-dry rain gutters, the memory of the path slowly came back to him. He wondered how they'd lasted so long down here. The days of bleeding in the filthy darkness, vying with rats and insects for a home, living on top of each other so that hate and love grew equally strong.

When he found the lair, he walked past the camouflaged door before he remembered the cement worn away from several red bricks where only cinder blocks should have been. He couldn't remember how to press the bricks to open the door, but instead of admitting that to Donatello, he closed his eyes and held out his hands.

His hands remembered and moved without thought. A second later, the door opened.

The bridge had collapsed from a long-ago flood. Cracks lined the floor and the crystals had long since stopped glowing. The staircase looked so rusted that he decided to climb up the wall instead.

Raising his lantern high, he walked a slow line towards his room, retracing steps that felt familiar and strange. His breath misted in the cold, still air. His shadow followed at his heels. If he didn't breathe, he could hear his family going about their routines and coming together at the melted mass of broken televisions against the wall.

It wasn't home. It hadn't been home for a lifetime. This was an empty husk, a shell, briefly coming to life again as its spirit returned for just a moment. He only now understood that.

"Hey, Don," he whispered as if afraid of disturbing something. "You still there?"

"I'm here," Donatello said quietly. "I didn't want to say something and distract you at the wrong moment."

"Don't worry about that," Leonardo said. "Talk to me?"

He had hear Donatello's smile.

"You know, Mikey told me a really good ghost story yesterday..."

"Cute, Don. Real cute."


	3. Chapter 3

**Casting Stones at the River: Drabbles 11-15**  
by KC

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the turtles.  
**Other info**: 100 drabbles focusing on fragments of a larger whole. Not in chronological order. Also, these are KC drabbles, so I reject your notion of short and substitute my own.  
**Pairings**: So far, OT4, Usagi/Leo

**Technology**

It isn't fair.

Across the lair, Leonardo hears clanking gears, ratcheting chains, curses over knuckles busted on steel, and he whines in his heart that it isn't fair.

Raphael and Donatello are working on their motorcycles.

Machinery is not to be trusted. Leonardo has seen it fail too often to put any faith in it, heard the motor whine to a stop exactly when needed the most. Donatello has said (late when he thinks he's alone in his lab) that everything he makes is only one screw from failure.

Leonardo tries not to listen to comments like that. He will never understand metal and chains and fanbelts and converters. He needs his faith in Donatello. Machinery fails, but Donatello does not.

"Toss me that brake shoe, will ya?" Raphael says.

"Sure, and hand me the raiser by your shell?"

Sheathing his swords, Leonardo sneaks closer. He knows he doesn't have to. The electric whine of drills and a welding torch fill the garage with plenty of noise to mask his steps. Even if they didn't, Raphael and Donatello are too engrossed in their work to hear him. He stops well away from the door and leans to one side, peering through the thin crack.

Tools and parts cover the floor. Grease covers Raphael's hands from fingers to elbow. Black smudges line his plastron. He leans up from the drill and lets it fall silent, sighing as he wipes sweat from his forehead. A black mark streaks his red bandanna.

Behind him, Donatello finishes welding a handlebar assembly and sets the torch by his feet. Leonardo's always hated the large plastic mask he wears when he welds. He looks so alien, as if he's in world far away. It looks like a ritual, like he's sacrificing something of himself, and it bothers Leonardo that he can't tell if Donatello's gaining anything in return.

When Donatello shoves his plastic mask up, he's smiling. He lets the mask drop to the floor and leans back against Raphael's shell.

"We're gonna have to stop soon," Donatello sighs. "We need O rings and shocks, and your bike needs a new ignition coil."

"It's still early," Raphael says. "It's probably still light out. We could make a run to the junk yard and see if they got anything new in."

"Yeah..."

Even from the other room, Leonardo hears the weariness in Donatello's voice. His brother has been up for almost twenty hours, and he knows Donatello barely had any sleep the night before.

Raphael hears it, too. He turns and puts an arm around Donatello, ignoring his grimace at the grease and sweat.

"Or," he says in a low voice, staring down into Donatello's eyes, "we could take a long shower and then kick back on the couch. Mike's got a new stack of comics and Leo ain't gonna look up from meditating for hours."

Donatello squirms, but there's no real effort in it. "I gotta get the rust off my tools from when it flooded."

"We can polish 'em on the couch," Raphael coaxes, nuzzling his cheek. "I like the smell of Never-Dull on ya."

Smiling and tilting his head away, Donatello is about to answer.

Leonardo backs away. This isn't for his ears. This isn't for his eyes. This isn't something he should be watching.

He turns and heads back to the dojo, sitting down to meditate. Clearing his mind is harder than normal, especially when Raphael tugs Donatello to the shower, whispering teases that have Donatello laughing under his breath. The bathroom door closes, then slowly falls open just enough to let slip a wisp of steam.

Leonardo closes his eyes and forces his mind to blank. It's a harsh technique meant for panic attacks and overwhelming anxiety. He knows it will give him a migraine later, but right now he's satisfied to silence his frustration.

His mind clears empties, and he's alone again.

**Art**

Other info: Major props to Buslady for pointing out that turtles do indeed have sensitivity in their shells. Couldn't have written this without knowing that.

*  
Made of blood and bone, their shells sensed touch like a hand in a glove. A hand along their shell is muted velvet. When they fall on their backs, cold concrete steals their breath. In bed, warmth travels through their shell.

Lying together, they feel their hands, mouths, even their heartbeats somehow synchronizing.

Of the four, clipped and scratched and broken with spots worn from fighting, Leonardo's shell is the most sensitive. Hits during practice fade fast, but Michelangelo's brush, heavy with cold paint, plays in maddening circles on his back, teasing like a lover's tongue.

Seated between Raphael and Donatello, Leonardo tries to focus on something, anything, to anchor his thoughts. The scrape of the kitchen chairs as his brothers keep him trapped. The sound of paint mixing on his shell. Raphael's smug laughter rumbling in his chest. As Michelangelo starts another line, Leonardo tenses and holds his breath.

"You're doing fine," Donatello murmurs in his ear, holding his left arm when he tries to draw it back. "Ah, hold still."

As he tries to pull away, Leonardo grinds his teeth and curls his fingers around Donatello's. Donatello readjusts himself so his legs comfortably wrap around Leonardo's left leg, trapping him with his body. As the brush dips along the curve of his shell, Leonardo hisses and turns his head, pressing his face into the shelter of Donatello's throat.

"What's the matter?" Raphael asks, his breath hot on the back of Leonardo's neck. "I thought you had better self-control than this."

Unlike Donatello, Raphael's grip is needlessly tight, leaving marks that will bruise. Leonardo opens his mouth to snap back, but a swirl and flourish of paint steals his voice. He shudders and draws in a quick breath, refusing to look at Raphael.

Egged on, Raphael grins and lay his fingertips on Leonardo's jaw, forcing his brother to look at him. Sliding his thumb into Leonardo's mouth, Raphael finds that he needs little effort to open his brother up to him. Unable to move and too proud to try to talk, Leonardo tries to squash the small complaining sounds he couldn't help.

"Don't tease him too much," Michelangelo warns them. "I don't wanna mess up."

"No prob," Raphael says. He squeezes slightly and Leonardo winces. "He ain't going anywhere."

"I think you're the one teasing him, Mike," Donatello says. "Are you almost done?"

"Take your time," Raphael says before Michelangelo can answer. "This is fun. Hey, see if you make him come up off the chair."

"Sorry," Michelangelo says, smiling as he adds a few details around the edge of the shell. "But I'm just about...there. Finished."

"Thank God," Leonardo breathes, relaxing and lying his head in Raphael's hand.

"Now don't move," Michelangelo orders him. "I wanna let this dry first. It's not cold, is it? I didn't use as much on yours as Raph's, but I think your shell is a little thinner."

"I'm all right," Leonardo says.

"Sure," Raphael says with a low laugh. "S'why you're boneless right now."

Once he moves Leonardo's mask ends yet again so they won't fall on wet paint, Donatello untangles himself and stands to stretch. Michelangelo had taken hours to paint animals on each of them, and that time sitting still would have left him sore and stiff even if he hadn't restrained Leonardo afterward. He takes a step back and looks over his brother's work, whistling in appreciation.

"I would've thought you'd go for an Eastern dragon," he says.

As he sets his brush in water, closing up his paints, Michelangelo shakes his head with a smile.

"Nah. That would've been too easy. Western dragons look sharper. Plus this way..." He hovers his hand over the serpentine body on his brother's shell. "I had more to paint. I was kinda hoping he'd go nuts, too."

Donatello studies the white dragon, noticing the details on its claws and fangs and the small spines running along its back. Somehow Michelangelo has made the thick paint translucent for the wings, letting the green of Leonardo's shell show through. In long, smooth lines, the dragon rears up on its tail with its wings spread wide, head tipped back. As Donatello holds the rim of Leonardo's shell, turning him slightly for a better look, their little brother gets up and takes a few steps back.

"Sit down together," Michelangelo says. "I wanna see 'em side by side."

Smiling indulgently, Donatello took his seat again and tugged Leonardo upright. After a shaky breath, his older brother finally sits straight, touching the bruises Raphael left on his arm and pressing the marks lightly.

"Closet masochist," Raphael mutters under his breath, nudging him with his hip.

"Good thing for you," Leonardo answers.

"As if you don't like it."

"Hold still," Michelangelo says and yanks Raphael's bandanna, ignoring his glare as he studies the artwork.

The stylized cranes on Donatello's shell had been first, simple lines with a suggested background of a pond and a pagoda with few details. The cranes stand with their wings folded, looking at the ripples on the water, and the white lines of the cranes melt into the pond and flow back up to the pagoda.

Raphael's white tiger is made of strong, bold strokes, stalking down Raphael's back with broad paws and glowering eyes. The curving tiger tail ends at his shoulders while its head draws near the bottom of the shell. Raphael looks like a living tao, coming closer and moving away at the same time.

"The dragon's a good balance between 'em," Michelangelo says to himself. "The highlights came out pretty nice, too."

"So," Donatello asks over his shoulder, "what're you going to get on your shell?"

Laughing once, Michelangelo shakes his head. "It's kinda hard to draw on my own back. Besides, I like it this way." He comes closer and draws his finger along Donatello's cranes, making his brother arch slightly.

"You each get my mark on you."

**13. War**

_"Empty your mind, be formless. Shapeless, like water. If you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. You put water into a bottle and it becomes the bottle. You put it in a teapot it becomes the teapot. Now, water can flow or it can crash. Be water my friend."_ -- Bruce Lee

_"On desperate ground, fight."_ -- Sun Tzu

All of them. He has to look up at all of them now. It's worst with Raphael, who has almost a full head over him thanks to their damn late growth spurts, but Donatello has several inches on him and Michelangelo--

For some reason, looking up at Michelangelo isn't so annoying when Leonardo's on the floor. Sent flying by a well timed kick, he hits the wall and grunts as the breath is knocked from him.

Already he's put his hands out, bracing himself to get back to his feet, but Michelangelo crashes into him, straddling his hips and kneeling on his hands. Leonardo presses back on the wall. Michelangelo's knees dig against his sides. His fingertips dig into Leonardo's shoulders, holding him still.

"Gotcha," Michelangelo whispers.

His breath is hot on Leonardo's face. Michelangelo nuzzles his cheek, kissing along his jaw, before he presses insistently against his mouth. Leonardo turns his face, trying to escape--and Michelangelo laughs low in his throat.

"Can't run," he sing-songs. "You're so lucky I don't bite like Raph."

Leonardo can't help the tiny sounds that escape as Michelangelo takes tiny licks at his mouth. He tries to hold his breath, but Michelangelo is so close, pressing down on him. Michelangelo tilts his head and lightly draws his tongue over Leonardo's throat.

It's too much. Leonardo opens to take a quick breath and then he's breathing Michelangelo, their mouths pressed together as his brother forces a kiss. He can't close his mouth. Michelangelo won't let him, his tongue venturing deep, and Leonardo moans.

Finally Michelangelo shows mercy, drawing back with a light kiss and a smug grin.

"You like your own strategies used against you?" Michelangelo teases. "That Sun Tzu guy keeps going on about surrounded ground, difficult ground, desperate ground. Got sooo annoying."

Leonardo frowns. He doesn't like hearing his favorite book put down.

"But he had some good points," Michelangelo says, nuzzling again. "'When invading, penetrate deep'. And you're fun to invade."

He grinds his shell against Leonardo's for emphasis.

"Not what Sun Tzu had in mind," Leonardo can't help saying. He looks up at Michelangelo, staring straight into his laughing eyes.

"And Bruce Lee probably didn't have this in mind either," Michenagelo says.

He swells close for another kiss. Leonardo's resistance falters. He tilts his head and lets Michelangelo surge deep. The force is bruising, crashing water. When he draws back, it's like the tide rushing away from land, easing the pressure on his wrists as Michelangelo moves to a better position.

"Desperate," Leonardo whispers.

"Not desperate," Michelangelo argues, smiling. "Just wanted a bite."

Michelangelo looms over him, intent on victory. Leonardo's defeat is so close he can taste it. He squeezes his legs together, applying pressure to Leonardo's hips and drawing them up slightly.

"Maybe even a full course..."

"Desperate," Leonardo whispers again, but he smiles back and looks up at Michelangelo. "Ground."

Michelangelo narrows his eyes in confusion, then draws in a sharp breath. He's in a bad position, too cocky and tasting treasure that wasn't yet his, and his enemy has tensed beneath him, the rocks on which waves crash.

**14. Silence**

Light a candle and it looks back at you. Raphael flicks out the match and stares at the flame. Raises an eyeridge. Tilts his head. Turns the holder around.

He sighs and glares at the dark ceiling. Leonardo clearly has issues. The candle's just a candle. Maybe if it was an eye on a stick, it might make sense, but so far Leo's explanation is a big load.

"I don't know how to say it better than that," Leonardo had said. "I look into the candle and it's like a focus. Like part of me looking back."

Raphael would snuff the flame and head downstairs--there's a creature feature marathon tonight and Mikey's already tearing into the popcorn--but he can't give up yet. He's only just started. His big brother--

--well, older brother now, not so big anymore, not to Raphael--

Obviously his older brother gets something out of this, and Raphael wants to know what. Meditation is a waste of time. Sitting down, clearing the mind, turning inwards, all of that doesn't give him the satisfaction of busting heads and slamming punks into dumpsters. The crack of someone's nose under his sai's hilt clears stress from his head better than fidgeting on a dusty old mat in the cramped brick ovens their rooms turn into during summer.

Give him the stars, clouds blowing over the moon on an ocean breeze, the sound of the world moving around him. The open space and the freedom of night as he moves through the city's shadows. Pavement and grass and steel and birds singing and cats howling.

He's tried to stay home longer so Leonardo won't yell. He needs this thing they have, this fragile egg of friendship and not hurting each other, to stay unbroken. But the longer he stays in the darkness, the longer the darkness presses back. The walls turn into a tomb around him and he wants the sun, warm and orange and light. All the pain and loneliness and quiet despair fades into the light--

With a sharp breath, he opens his eyes. When had he closed them?

He looks down.

The candle looks back.

**15. Clouds**

Donatello watches the clouds.

Through the warehouse window, white clouds gather and break apart like cotton candy. The sunset even colors them pink. But imagining the sweet sugar doesn't take away the taste of cold steel between his teeth.

Somehow his brothers haven't blown all of them up yet. The second they make a mistake, the building will explode. If they survive the initial blast, the tons of bricks and boards and steel will crush them. If one of them is only pinned or trapped, they'll wait with their dead siblings until either the Foot come to finish them off or the police discover them, shoot them or call the government to study them. Or maybe they'll just starve.

Sometimes Donatello hates flow charts.

He watches the clouds instead.

But he can't hear the clouds, so he listens to his brothers breathe behind him. They touch his skin where the chain holds him fast--his throat, his wrists, his mouth. Their hands are warm on skin that's gone numb. They trace the chains back, looking for wires or hidden detonators.

He hears his duffel bag slipping off Michelangelo's shoulder onto the concrete floor. It's unzipped and then heavy bolt cutters touch his wrists. He stiffens. It makes no sense, but maybe if he doesn't move, the explosives won't go off.

Minutes creep by.

He watches the clouds.

The pink is fading to purple and gray. The sky turns a deeper blue and the air grows colder. A flashlight sends his shadow across the floor and wall, disappearing into the window. It's a windy night. The clouds race by in streaks, or is he just losing track of time?

A hand cups his face, and the bolt cutter snaps the chain around his face free. It doesn't fall slack. His jaw has been locked in position for hours. They have to coax his mouth open and draw the chain away, gently setting it on the wooden palette. He lets his stiff jaw fall, then closes it again.

No explosion yet. Maybe the palette isn't pressure sensitive. But they still have his hands and his throat to unlock. They're surrounded by hidden tripwires, maybe hard to spot security lasers. Maybe the Foot clan is watching them on a monitor back in their tower, laughing and arguing about detonating now or letting them sweat a little longer.

He has no way of knowing.

So he holds his breath and holds still and watches the clouds.


	4. Chapter 4

**Casting Stones at the River: Drabbles 16-20  
**by KC

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the turtles.**  
Other info: **100 drabbles focusing on fragments of a larger whole. Yes, these are all part of one large story, but smaller storyarcs will become apparent.**  
Pairings: **So far, OT4, Usagi/Leo, minor Karai/Leo

**16. Light**

He remembers her as a flicker. In his memories, she is still alive, still vital, dancing like flame.

Golden streetlamps, silver stars, the moon hiding behind glowing clouds--in the deepest shadows, the light finds her eyes, her swords, her hair, turning Karai into a diamond that cuts, a razor that gleams. Neon red blood follows after her blade like a ribbon, glistening like poison.

She blazes like a black sun and burns his eyes. She is broken inside and the shards catch the light. The affection in her eyes--Leonardo is not imagining it, it's there--is hunger come to life. It is the love of a snake for a mouse. It is the tender hand of the executioner gently laying the noose.

It is the sword that would bury to the hilt in his heart, whispering love, thrust by a silhouette of death edged in silver.

She is the candle that tips and burns his memories to ash.

**17. Hell**

A pressure switch? A tripwire they missed? Or maybe remote detonation? Michelangelo comes to his senses idly wondering what they did wrong and wondering why the ceiling is rippling like water. Why is he so hot?

A scream from far away--Raphael's, he thinks--clears his head. He blinks, then draws in a quick breath. The ripples on the ceiling are flames. Everything is on fire.

_He's_ on fire.

He rips off his wrist bands and his mask and drops them in burning tatters. He catches a glimpse of his arm as he does so. It's covered in blood but he doesn't feel the pain. Shock, he's in shock. There's no way to tell how deep it is and he doesn't have time to check. Raphael screams again--his screams are getting louder, like Michelangelo is rising up from water--and he looks up again.

The ceiling is crashing down on them. He throws himself away from the steel girders and shrapnel of broken bricks, but something heavy clips his shoulder. He stumbles into flames and rolls, hoping to find a spot clear of fire. He has to

Dust and smoke and hot ash burn his mouth. Raphael was on the other side of the collapsed roof. As he wastes a moment to breathe, pain flares in his shoulder. A chunk of his shell is broken off and he clamps his hand over the wound. His fingertips feel no spiderweb cracks, so he hopes his shell won't crack apart.

Over the roar of the fire, the cracking wood and the groan of steel melting and twisting, Michelangelo hears coughing. Looking around only shows him black smoke and burning embers in the air. He drops to his hands and knees, creeping along the ground, and he hears it again. He follows it, climbing over hot bricks. His hands turn gray from the dust.

He spots another gray hand in front of him and crawls closer, following his brother's body by touch. Donatello is sprawled in Leonardo's arms. Neither of them are moving. Donatello still has the broken loops of chain around his wrists. Leonardo blinks slowly, as if he's waking from a deep dream. Michelangelo wonders if they took the brunt of the explosion. Both are bleeding, but there's so much ash that he can't tell who's hurt worse.

Though he knows they have to get up, get moving, _anything_, Michelangelo drags himself next to Donatello and puts a hand on his shoulder. Donatello blinks and looks up, groaning as he tries to curl into Leonardo's lap. Michelangelo pulls at Donatello, but he can't make either of them move.

The debris beside them shifts. Michelangelo flinches, sure that fire and torn metal is about to fall on them. Instead the rubble tilts to the side and Raphael clambers over the pile, stumbling on a swollen ankle. Raphael spots them and reaches for Donatello, hauling him out of Leonardo's hands.

Losing his brother brings Leonardo back to awareness. He makes a faint grab for Donatello before he realizes what's happening. Michelangelo takes his hand and helps him to his feet. With his throbbing shoulder, Michelangelo doesn't think he can carry him out, but he doesn't have to. Leonardo leans on him and tries not to slow him down as they follow Raphael.

Another explosion behind them, another in front of them. Michelangelo holds onto Leonardo with one hand and grabs Raphael's belt with his other. They have to stay close or else he'll lose him--

Cold air. He shivers and takes a deep breath that doesn't burn. Glowing embers follow them out of the gash torn into the side of the warehouse. He doesn't hear anything except the fire and smaller explosions inside.

Leonardo stumbles. Michelangelo readjusts his grip and sees his brother's eyes are still unfocused. It's all he can do to walk. Trying to hold him so he won't get cold, Michelangelo tries to whisper that it's okay, that they're out of the fire now.

But trying only makes him cough mouthfuls of ash.

**18. Alcohol**

Raphael hated sake, but beer is beer. Too sweet, too warm and watered down, it made him want to go home--just like everything else in Usagi's world.

He was used to a shadowy underground, buildings that blocked the sky and cramped alleys that felt like living in a concrete hive. Wire fences and steel walls, electric lights and broken glass--those were familiar.

Usagi's world of grass, open sky, forests and dirt roads--he grimaced. Sure, they were pretty and picturesque, but he missed the ocean breeze, the cool night wind on his face, the city glowing and pulsing around him. Here, even though he didn't have to hide, the world felt empty. Miles of fields and forests stretched between towns, broken up only by lonely temples, abandoned shacks and the occasional hot spring.

He hated hot springs. Leonardo swore they eased every sore muscle and old break, but Raphael had tried them. Too hot, too dirty, too open--give him a shower any day.

He took another sip of sake and grimaced.

Or maybe he just hated knowing Leonardo shared them with the samurai.

He watched them from the far corner of the inn. It was crowded with celebrants relaxing after the Bon dance, and no one noticed him in the shadows and cobwebs beneath the stairs. Under a hood and half-hiding behind a cup of sake, he faded into the background.

Not that his brother or Usagi would have seen him if he'd sat on top of them. They only stared into each other's eyes over soft smiles that Raphael would have punched off Leonardo's face if aimed at him. They sat within arm's reach, so close that Raphael would have fidgeted and pushed Leonardo away.

His mood soured completely. The sake was too sweet.

Usagi leaned closer to Leonardo, whispering as his lips brushed his skin. Leonardo had to lean close to hear.

Raphael's fist clenched. Everything in this world was too sweet, too open. Far too close.

With a growl, he forced his fist to relax. He was learning. A closed fist would send Leonardo here more often. He had to find a way to keep Leonardo home, instead.

After he found the bottom of the sake jar.

**19. Numbers**

_From the scribbled margins of Donatello's notes:_

**x****8-2y**  
*where x = Donatello's acceptable amount of sleep  
*where y = coffee cups

**(a+b)x = y**  
*where a = fear of the dark  
*where b = fear of being alone  
*where x = hours spent alone because his brothers are off in their own worlds  
*where y = the maximum time before Michelangelo drowns in loneliness

**x****-y**  
*where x = Leonardo's confidence  
*where y = a sharp word from Splinter

**1/(x+y)-72**  
*where x = Raphael's rage measured in broken objects  
*where y = hours spent topside beating up gangs  
*where 1 is the point when he drags himself home

**(1+x)(0+y)**  
*where 1 = any turtle  
*where x = alcohol  
*where 0 = being alone  
*where y = damage done from lowered inhibitions

**x ∙ y = 0**  
*where x = male turtles  
*where y = female turtles

**x ∙ y = i**  
*where x = 15 years  
*where y = years before mutation  
*where i = an unknowable number

**x = r****a**** ∙ a****l**** ∙ i ∙ R****p/r**** ∙ M****j/f**** ∙ D****d/-d**** ∙ L****c/p ****o**  
*where ra = rate of learning new techniques or technologies  
*where al = fraction of encountered alien cultures that can be learned from  
*where i = catastrophic injury  
*where Rp/r = Raphael's passion shattered by rage  
*where Mj/f = Michelangelo's joy shattered by fear  
*where Dd/-d = Donatello's drive shattered by doubt  
*where Lc/p = Leonardo's confidence shattered by paranoia  
*where o = love or other battlefield distraction  
Solve for x = odds of survival

_**Mikey's note:**_  
72 hours + 0 sleep = 1 trippy turtle! Time for bed, dude!

**20. Dark**

The double helix of his DNA spun slowly on the screen. Slumped in his chair, Donatello stared at it like an enemy. It turned as if circling him, its nucleotides color coded and glowing against a black background. It was the only light in the room.

He had to be wrong, but he'd found no errors in his work--no missed steps, no faulty equipment, no bugs in his computer. There was only the darkness and the digital picture of his mutation.

Mapping his own genetic structure fascinated him once. The mix between human and turtle didn't always make sense. What should not have been present was, and what should have been there was missing. Turtles should not sweat and yet they had sweat glands. Their spinal columns shouldn't be able to telescope, and yet Michelangelo could pull his head halfway to his shell. They shouldn't have keen night vision, and yet Leonardo moved through the darkness like it was daytime. Their instincts should have been suppressed, but Raphael sometimes churred in pleasure. And while humans were active during the winter, Donatello found that he could last for days on hot coffee.

But mutation was a strange thing, and human and turtle DNA combined into new codes that didn't exist in either. Neither turtles nor humans should have been as strong, as acrobatic, as agile as they were. With their wide mouths, they shouldn't have been able to speak. Their shells were stronger than bone and yet flexible, allowing them to arch back several inches.

Courtship behavior? Gone.  
Aggression over food? Gone.  
Degradation of cells due to aging?

All the utrom and triceraton technology couldn't find it.

He starts to stand, and then a thought occurs to him. He thinks a moment, then laughs once, bitterly, and draws his notebook closer. In his margins are his unsolvable equations that come to him when coffee keeps him awake. He clicks his pen and adds a bit to the last equation.

**x = r****a**** ∙ a****l**** ∙ i ∙ R****p/r**** ∙ M****j/f**** ∙ D****d/-d**** ∙ L****c/p ****o **∞  
*where ∞ stands for all potential values of infinity

He dropped the pen and left the computer running. He'd find a way to break the news to them the next day, or maybe next week. Maybe next month. Maybe in ten or twenty years. For tonight he needed to share a bed and curl up in warm arms with a soothing voice that would fill him with the now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Casting Stones at the River: Drabbles 21-25  
by KC**

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the turtles.  
**Other info**: 100 drabbles focusing on fragments of a larger whole. Not in chronological order. Also, these are KC drabbles, so I reject your notion of short and substitute my own.  
**Pairings**: So far, OT4, Usagi/Leo, minor Karai/Leo

**21. Solitary**

"These brake pads are shot," Raphael calls from under the van. His legs are all that's visible between the tires. "Got any on the shelf?"

"Under the pile of carburetors," Donatello says, not looking up from his laptop from the floor.

"Carburetors?" Raphael echoes, and he wheels out from under the van and searches the shelves. "No one uses those anymore. S'all fuel injected now."

Leaning against the wall and sitting crosslegged, Donatello would mention that he can use the parts for his other designs, but he has to tug his notebook away from Michelangelo, who gives it up with a whine and goes back to earning "100% secrets discovered" in Hyper Zombie Revolution on his handheld. The floor of the garage shouldn't look so comfortable, but Michelangelo stretches out like a cat and makes the room feel warmer just by being there.

As Donatello jots down a new thought in his notebook, he spots crayon hearts and happy faces scribbled in the margins. He glares at Michelangelo's puppy eyes and flips the page. He should scold his little brother for wasting the space, but right now he's lost in an alien program left over from the Triceraton invasion.

"I just don't get it," he murmurs. "Why would the Triceratons have a whole subroutine devoted to their suns?"

Drowsing against him, Leonardo glances at the screen. "Suns?"

"They only have one," Donatello says, hoping that by explaining, he'll answer his own question. "They have their galaxy just sketched out, but they get real specific about how the light falls on each planet in all the neighboring systems. I mean, they go into how the glare is different from a yellow or red sun, how it colors the sky at different times of day."

He opens a menu in the subroutine, but the options to match color and texture to a background didn't offer any clues. It was like looking at cosmic paint swatches. He stares at it with a sigh.

"It makes no sense. They barely note where the black holes and asteroid fields are. Why do they care about the closest stars?"

"It's so they can come out of the sun," Leonardo says, laying his head down on his shoulder again.

"What?"

Donatello rips his attention from the screen and stares at his big brother. Ever since they escaped the fire, Leonardo spends more time curled against him. All of them have. Donatello hasn't had a moment alone in his laboratory since they rescued him, but Leonardo is the only one not content with just being near. Instead he drapes himself over his shoulder, needing to touch and hold and know he's there.

"We fight too much in the dark to worry about it," Leonardo explains. "But you always want the sun at your back in a fight. Put the glare in the enemy's eyes."

Donatello looks back at the screen. "Oh. Then the colors and textures are to see how much their ships would stand out when they attack."

"Mm."

Leonardo presses a light kiss to his throat. Donatello isn't sure if it's his way of saying thanks for listening or teasing him for not knowing environmental combat skills or just because Leonardo is half asleep. He's rarely so demonstrative otherwise.

"Screw it," Raphael says as he wipes thick grease off his hands. "I already tuned up the engine. I'll finish the brakes tomorrow."

Raphael glances at the clock and counts the hours they've been in the garage. Frowning at the answer, he kneels in front of Donatello and taps his nose with a grease stained finger.

"Hit save," Raphael warns him.

Pressing "control S" quickly, Donatello pulls his hands back before Raphael closes the laptop and leans closer. Raphael's heat radiates out and warms his whole body.

"I don't wanna leave you alone here," Raphael whispers, ignoring Michelangelo's snort. "But I gotta take a shower. You coming?"

Before Donatello can nod, Michelangelo's shut off his game and Leonardo is coming to his feet. All of them look at him expectantly. Thinking that it's going to be a long time before he spends a day alone, Donatello sets his laptop aside and takes Raphael's hand.

**22. Lightning**

The fan lay on Leonardo's bed for him to find, deliberately placed on his pillow. A simple sheet of paper folded over itself and pinned at the bottom, it was hardly the elegant Heian fan it echoed, but Leonardo found that he loved the childish touches Michelangelo lent to life.

He unfolded it and smiled.

_two cats paused by my door tonight  
one grasps a mouse in its claws  
the other, I think, is afraid of my tail_

So Michelangelo had heard him after all. Leonardo blamed Klunk. In spying on his little brother in bed, he'd almost tripped over her.

Sitting on the floor, he pulled his box of calligraphy brushes and ink to his side. The lacquer box, neatly wrapped with a bow and left in his room, had been a luxury he never thought he'd use. Was this what Michelangelo had in mind when he gave it to him?

_the mouse scratches at his books all night  
the cat, though hungry, bides its time  
no sport in hunting a sleepy mouse_

Stealing into Michelangelo's room, he found his brother sprawled across his bed. He carefully picked his way over the open books that lay where Michelangelo had dropped them--Goethe, Chiyo-ni and Steinbeck--and lay the poem at his brother's hand. Risking a little more, he set the books in a neat stack, bookmarks in place, and left Michelangelo's notepad and pencil on top. He left as quietly as he came.

The next two days passed with no reply. They practiced together, helped move equipment for Donatello and stop Saki from stealing something from the Japan Society museum. They never found out what he was after, but Leonardo worries that they'll see it again later. Saki is nothing if not persistent.

Leonardo's anxiety fades when he finds the fan on his bed.

_self-satisfied and cocky  
the cat purrs as his tail flicks idly  
suddenly lightning_

Lightning? He scanned the poem again, reading Michelangelo's eagerness in his quick brush strokes. Had he missed something? He read the kanji again, searching for double meanings--

There was someone behind him.

For an instant, he froze. That shouldn't be possible. No one was as quiet--he dropped the fan and tried to turn, but that lost second was all it took. Strong arms caught him up and kept him trapped. The laugh that followed was soft but triumphant.

**23. Fight**

Raphael watches Usagi kiss Leonardo goodbye one last time and walk out of the inn. He puts his saké down with a sense of finality. Maybe he's had enough false courage. Maybe he's ready for this after all. Either way, he stands and walks toward the table.

Few people are still inside. The dancing is done. All that is left is pushing the lantern boats into the river. That leaves him, the inn's owner, a couple of drunks by the door, and Leonardo, still sighing at his table. Raphael is sure his brother knows he's there, but only as another reveler. He's mooning over Usagi too much to notice anyone else.

Raphael sits down before Leonardo realizes who he is. Confused that a stranger would join him, Leonardo looks up. His breath catches, then steadies as he forces himself calm.

"Didn't expect me here," Raphael says in a low voice, "did you?"

Leonardo doesn't move but the lines around his eyes tighten. Raphael grumbles at himself. He didn't mean to sound like that. And Leonardo facing him like that doesn't make talking any easier. He's so easy to read, an open book to anyone who's lived with him for years. Raphael notices the fingers of Leonardo's left hand curl so slightly. If they come to blows, Leonardo will lead with his left.

"I don't wanna fight," Raphael says, looking away. "I didn't come to fight. Sorry."

Raphael doesn't expect him to relax, and he doesn't. The silence strains Raphael's patience. If he gets up now, he could just leave and pretend this never happened. Leonardo would never bring it up. But he doesn't want the conversation to die before it starts.

"Why are you here?" Leonardo finally asks, letting his anger show.

"I wanted to ask what it is," Raphael says. "What's he give you that I don't?"

A look of distaste spreads across Leonardo's face, and he leans back as if Raphael has turned poisonous.

"Raphael--"

"Not that, dammit," Raphael says, but the curse is aimed at himself and Leonardo knows it. "Not that. I know I can make you scream as well as him, I know that. But what's he give you?"

When Leonardo shakes his head and looks like he'll leave, Raphael changes his angle.

"Why are you here instead of home?"

That stops him cold. Leonardo murmurs his name again. There's no way to read his face now. His emotions twist inside of him, but he's masking it under his wariness. He looks like he expects Raphael to snap, to yell, to push aside the table and hit him with words as much as his fists.

It's the same vulnerability as when he's choking back sobs beneath Raphael, arching beneath him. It's the same look in his eyes as when Raphael holds him crushingly tight to make him groan.

"You're jealous," Leonardo whispers.

"That's part of it," Raphael says. It costs him nothing to admit it. He takes out his heart and lays it on the table, hoping Leonardo won't slice it apart. "I'm trying to change, Leo. You know that. But I'm flying blind here. I need something to aim for."

It must be something in his voice that keeps Leonardo from leaving. It certainly isn't his eloquence. Leonardo laughs once, laughs again, but they're more like short, confused gasps. He doesn't look at him. Raphael waits. He feels like time's standing still.

"...he doesn't try to hurt me," Leonardo says, staring at the table. "We fight, but not like with you. We only fight for practice, to test our skills against each other. And even then, it isn't--it isn't--"

He fumbles for the words that Raphael already knows.

"It isn't angry," Raphael finishes for him. "He isn't lashing out."

Leonardo glances at him. Raphael's gaze is flat, accepting. There's no try to defend himself. Heartened, Leonardo continues.

"Sometimes we don't talk. The whole afternoon, we just watch the petals fall or listen to the rain. Or--or other things."

Raphael doesn't have to guess that Leonardo is sparing his feelings, not mentioning the trysts with the samurai. He can imagine them well enough--lounging by the hot springs, cooling off by a river, making love in the first snowfall. Raphael never thought of how much Leonardo longed for seasons moving by him, never complaining about living underground and straining at the leash as Raphael did.

"What else?"

Opening his mouth, Leonardo pauses. Raphael shifts in his seat. In one moment, Leonardo's mood darkens. His big brother withdraws into himself, and when he speaks, he is quieter as if talking to himself.

"He calls me dishonorable."

Raphael blinks. He didn't expected that.

"What?"

"It's half a tease," Leonardo explains with a wave of his hand.

And half serious, Raphael thinks.

"What else?" he asks.

"Deceitful, treacherous," Leonardo adds. "He's a samurai. Of course he thinks it. Some of the things I had to do here just confirm it for him."

So Leonardo didn't come just lay with Usagi. Raphael wonders how many adventures Leonardo had enjoyed here, and how close he'd come to death each time. How often they have nearly lost him and not known it.

"He's so dedicated to honor," Leonardo breathes. "What if...?"

He lets the question hang, unable to finish it, but he looks up at Raphael as if he knows the answer. His eyes look more lost than Raphael ever wants to see.

Unable to give him an answer, Raphael reaches across the table and cups Leonardo's face in his hand, running his thumb across his cheek and ignoring the slight flinch at his touch. Leonardo doesn't shy away. His look drops to the saké bottle in front of him, empty although there is no hint of alcohol on his breath.

He takes you drinking, Raphael thinks, and you don't drink.

"I think it's time to go home," Raphael says without trying to sound pushy.

He waits until Leonardo rises, then gets to his feet and waits for the room to stop tilting. Beer, wine, mixed drinks--he's used to those. saké is a different creature altogether, and he's had more than enough. To his surprise, instead of giving him an exasperated sigh or a stern look, Leonardo takes his arm and helps steady him as he walked him out.

Running alongside the street, the river spreads to the horizon in both directions. Bordered by willows and cattails on either side, the river rushes down its path, interrupted only by an occasional fish leaping out and disturbing the surface. Small glowing boats drift with the current, leaving this world and riding to the next.

**24. Rain**

On stormy nights, Michelangelo felt like the water would rise to the top of their skyscraper and wash them away. He sometimes wondered if the buildings of old New York could really stand the fury of the ocean lashing their sides, but Donatello reassured him that they'd been shored up well. Strange that he didn't worry about their own home. The walls of _Hamato Heavy Industries_, including those of their bedroom, were made of floor to ceiling windows that let him see in all directions, watching the water rush through the streets like rivers.

He called it their bedroom, but it was really their safe room. No one came here except them. Donatello's desk sat near the far wall with his laptop and paperwork, a fireplace behind a screen, and their nest. They only allowed each other one more item, a notebook for Michelangelo, a book for Leonardo and usually a magazine for Raphael. The bedroom was for them, not the outside world.

Lightning flashed through black clouds, followed by soft thunder. He turned away and sat back down on the spread of futons and blankets in the center of their room. The lamp on Donatello's desk provided enough light to see by, and he didn't like to move when he felt surrounded storm clouds.

The door opened, and Michelangelo jumped nervously and pulled the blanket tighter. Good natured laughter made him relax again. Leonardo set his swords and things by the door, still toweling off from his shower.

"You know you can darken the windows," Leonardo said. "I don't mind."

"I like watching the storm, too," Michelangelo insisted. "It's just better when I'm not alone."

Smiling, Leonardo closed the door and pulled the towel off his shoulders, dropping it on the floor. The thin collar around his throat gleamed silver, then faded into the shadows as Leonardo came and sat with him.

"Raph and Don'll be here soon," he said. "They were moving 746 back into its enclosure."

"Mm."

Michelangelo pulled his blanket off his legs, wordlessly inviting Leonardo to curl against him. He knew the day had been longer and rougher than most--any experiment in the 700's was cloned megafauna, not easy to manage when they got loose--and as expected, Leonardo lay down, pillowing his head on Michelangelo's lap.

He couldn't help it. The collar was in perfect reach, and he idly traced the edge of the metal where it lay perfectly flush with Leonardo's skin. Half a year had passed since Leonardo had escaped and returned a week later. The days after he came back had been cruel. They never spoke of his disappearance in front of Donatello.

"What did the rain feel like?" Michelangelo whispered, as if he was asking a secret.

Leonardo's smile turned wistful. His punishment for leaving would last for years, he was certain. Donatello's trust was slow to return. But the week had been worth everything.

"The rain's different," he whispered back. "It's a little warmer than before. And all the lights and signs up there make it shine different colors. It's like being in a dark rainbow."

"And the lightning?"

"That hasn't changed. But it's louder outside the glass. One bolt struck near where I was, and the whole sky went white and the thunder was right next to me." Leonardo looked up at him with clear eyes, the sheer joy of it still vivid to him. "It was like coming out of deep water and breathing for the first time."

Outside, the thunder rumbled like distant anger. Michelangelo pulled the blanket over both of them and settled down, listening to Leonardo describe the changes and the city while they waited for Raphael and Donatello to come back.

**25. Tears**

When Splinter passed away, Raphael was surprised by the depth and strength of his grief. Being left behind struck him until he could feel nothing but emptiness. He sat in shock, breathing in short gasps and holding onto someone, he didn't know who, as tears slowly welled up and didn't stop. They didn't stop for hours. All he could think of was that life had to end and that he would be left alone. He didn't know how, but he would be alone.

When Splinter's last breath faded, Michelangelo couldn't speak. His throat was too tight and yet too hollow. Their home was hollow, missing something vital. He needed someone, anyone in his arms to try to fill the void, and then he was holding someone as they trembled. The silence hurt. He wanted to fill it but he couldn't catch his breath to say anything. He tried to to scream and something sucked his breath back.

When Splinter's eyes turned to glass, Leonardo started to break inside. As if he could hear his spirit chipping at the edges, he felt the pressure settle fully on him. How would he keep the family together? Alive? Undiscovered? Tiny fractures and cracks crept through his body. The smallest shock would crush him.

When Splinter died, Donatello had done his grieving. Knowing how sickness and old age progressed in rats had given him a schedule, and he'd cried as he anticipated the loss, wiping his eyes as he typed or studied. Now that it was here, he felt like a hard river had been crossed. The long journey of acceptance was still to come, but the worst of it was over.

Over for him. Donatello touched Leonardo's hand and quietly held him. His brothers would not weather this soon. For today, he doubted they would eat. He would make coffee and keep Raphael stocked with beer instead, sheltering them in one of their rooms until he could carry the body to Central Park. Tomorrow he would let them mourn, and if any of them separated from the others, he would gently bring them back.

For now, he waited.


	6. Chapter 6

**Casting Stones at the River: Drabbles 26-30**  
by KC

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the turtles.  
**Summary**: How long do mutant turtles live? Glimpses into the past, present and future.  
**Other info**: 100 drabbles focusing on fragments of a larger whole. Not in chronological order. Also, these are KC drabbles, so I reject your notion of short and substitute my own.  
**Pairings**: So far, OT4, Usagi/Leo, minor Karai/Leo

**26. Sun**

Being away from the lair helps. The lair feels like a tomb, dark, cramped and filled with memories of the dead. Not that Raphael wants to forget his father. Splinter's picture is on the mantle, after all. But the lair feels too cold and enclosed by stone to stay there and not go mad. If the farm is quiet, it's the stillness of birds singing on a quiet road, not dripping water, mysterious creaks from the darkness or an older brother who's become silent.

On the farm, there's the wind, a cool breeze, and sunlight. From the way the roof creaks under his weight, Raphael sometimes wonders if the wood will break and he'll crash down into their bedroom. But the old roof holds and he lies with his eyes closed, hands folded over his chest as he bathes in the sun.

It's a rare luxury--warmth, light, air. On the days he believes in heaven, this is what he knows it'll be. Maybe it won't have that lone cicada singing in the distance, but the insect's drone adds to the heavy heat on him, making him drowsy.

"Mind some company?" Donatello asks, popping up at the edge of the roof.

"C'mon up," Raphael replies without moving.

He yawns and listens to his brother climbing beside him, flopping down just within arm's reach. Raphael glances out of the corner of his eye and sees that he brought a pillow. They'll both probably be here until sunset. One of the benefits of mutant skin is that they don't sunburn easily.

The cicada begins humming again. A minute passes before Donatello sighs.

"Just fair warning," Donatello says, "Mikey called. He and Leo'll be back soon. It didn't sound like his plan worked."

"Heh. He had a plan?" Raphael smiles and scratches an itch along his shell.

"He thought a hike would get Leo to open up, what with all the poetry they write each other. He hoped he could get Leonardo to talk out there."

Raphael frowns. Leonardo loses himself in the forest regularly, disappearing for hours only to return in the evening, and then only because the fireflies came out in greater numbers around the farm house. A nature walk with him usually means coming home late, hungry and footsore, but it's better than letting him go off alone. If Leonardo decided to hide out there, they'd never find him. If he got hurt, Raphael wondered if he'd call for help.

"So it didn't work?" he asks.

Frustration fills Donatello's reply.

"I think Leo spent more time under Mikey than composing haiku," Donatello says. "I saw him behind Mikey on the screen. He looked exhausted."

Exhausted? Raphael knows that Leonardo didn't wear out easily. First Usagi, now Michelangelo--his big brother has a real thing for sex in nature. Raphael can see the allure, the open air, the grass and leaves and sunlight, the wind playing over them. And if Leonardo was with someone he trusted, he'd relax out here as much as he ever could.

Raphael closes his eyes again, imagining the way Leonardo looks completely at ease, sated beneath the trees in sun-dappled shadow.

Tomorrow he'll insist on accompanying him out to the lake.

**27. Question**

[Removed for content for . Available on my livejournal (see profile for address).]

**28. History**

From the documentary Evolutionary Cousins: the Introduction of Mutants to Human Society

"The last decade of the century is now widely known as the Mutant Awareness Era, the period of time when humanity became aware of a subculture of intelligent mutant humanoids. Produced by alien engineering, human experimentation or environmental accident, mutants shaped the course of the world without recognition until the defeat of an invading Federation army, repulsed by then-head of the Earth Protection Forces John Bishop and the Hamato family, dramatically aired live on television.

_Hamato Heavy Industries_ was established during this era, finding a niche for itself in advanced genetic technology. However, the corporation grew exponentially after rising sea levels turned many large coastal cities into modern day Venices. As the water level rose, so did construction on their New York headquarters, which stands at nearly two hundred stories, ten of those beneath water. Now the world leader in cloning and techno-organic bioware, earning more each year than the GNP of many countries, _Hamato Heavy Industries_ is the most successful mutant-run business in America, led by CEO and lead scientist Donatello Hamato and assisted by his three brothers, Leonardo, Michelangelo and Raphael.

The family rarely comes out of their New York headquarters, preferring seclusion and privacy to the glare of the cameras. During the fight against the Federation, the four picked off news cameras as often as enemy soldiers. Only the youngest, Michelangelo Hamato, will provide interviews during his occasional gallery exhibits. Otherwise, the only information aside from what their public relations office will provide comes from sporadic reports about their purchases: ancient weaponry including swords and spears, vintage motorcycles and athletic equipment.

Once a year, however, much like the Thanksgiving Day Floating Parade still produced by Macy's, _Hamato Heavy Industries_ puts on a fireworks extravaganza for the city. Around July 15th, the family celebrates the Japanese Bon festival, popularizing the holiday across America. Dancing, bonfires and music fill the rooftop before prepared paper boats are released at water level, culminating in one of the largest fireworks displays in the world.

_Hamato Heavy Industries_ still works closely with the Earth Protection Forces, and many officers from there are invited to the festival.

The Earth Protection Forces, despite their isolationist approach to intergalactic immigration, is also one of the most heavily integrated human-mutant organizations..."

**29. Stupid**

At the dining table, Michelangelo holds his head in his hands and feels his heart pound harder and harder in his chest. Why couldn't he learn to leave the card game when he ran out of chips? They all knew Donatello counted the cards. This wasn't fair!

"Don..." Michelangelo whines, staring at the needle in his brother's hand. "Don't you think that thing's overkill? It's bigger than a McDonald's straw!"

"It's not that bad," Donatello says, ignoring his look.

They don't have access to the equipment Donatello would like, but the tools Raphael stole from a piercing shop are good enough. He's sterilized the needle again. He just wishes he could keep his hands steady when he does runs the needle through. Leonardo didn't yank away, but Donatello knows that's only because his big brother had put himself into a meditative trance well beforehand. Raphael fared little better, wincing and holding Leonardo's hand so hard that he winced.

Sitting on the couch with a large plastic cup, Leonardo popped another two pieces of ice and gave a theatrical groan of pain. Michelangelo looked at him, his hands sliding over his mouth as he whimpered.

"Leo," Donatello says sternly, "stop teasing him."

"Sorry," Leonardo says, but he'd look a lot more sincere if he wasn't smiling behind his hand. It doesn't help that his voice sounds thicker because of the swelling.

On the other side of the couch, Raphael nurses his own cup of ice and snickers at Michelangelo. He hates needles, but the thought of how those piercings would feel during sex made the pain worth it.

"It's okay, Mikey," Raphael laughs, "it just hurts for a moment. Then it's a dull burn that doesn't go away."

"Stop talking," Donatello grumbles. "You're not funny."

"I think it's hilarious," Raphael grins.

Donatello glares, which at least quiets him. Taking a deep breath, he holds the needle firmly and turns to Michelangelo, motioning for him to open his mouth.

"Okay," he says, more to steady himself than to Michelangelo. "Tongue out."

**30. Belief**

Leonardo is two inches shorter than Donatello. Not that Donatello stands up often enough to lord it over him. His brother sits hunched over a computer or lies twisted beneath complex machinery more often than he simply stands next to him. Plus, Donatello never mentions it. His growth spurt hit first, and he didn't tease any of them, probably because he knew their own spurts would be bigger than his.

Leonardo is four inches shorter than Michelangelo. That stings. Mikey, his little brother, the baby of the family, taller than him. Stronger, too. And if Leonardo's honest with himself, more talented and acrobatic to boot. Fortunately Michelangelo is also hyperactive, impatient and lazy when he doesn't want to work. He's only disciplined when he wants to be. When they're in a fight, tossed over the side of a building or creeping through the dusty crawlspaces of an enemy lair, Leonardo wishes Michelangelo would put more effort into his training. When Leonardo lies alone in bed at night measuring his self-worth against his brothers' strengths and weaknesses, he doesn't mind so much.

Leonardo is seven inches shorter than Raphael, and now almost fifty pounds lighter. It's hard to yell when he has to look up. All Raphael has to do is catch his arms, wrap around him and hold him tight, even just grab his ankle and drag him close. Unless Leonardo is willing to use killing blows, destroy his trachea, slash his throat, put out an eye--he can't do more than postpone the inevitable. Kicks and punches can dissuade Raphael most of the time, but if he's set on leaving the lair or throwing Leonardo onto the floor, it'll happen.

Since their master's death, Leonardo has come to accept that he's never going to reach higher than 5'5". It's a good height. He fits into spaces his brothers can't anymore. He can slip over rusted pipes and old masonry that Raphael would crash right through. Shadows cover him completely. Those handful of inches translate into body mass that he's better off without. He's stealthier than the rest of them, and stealthy never means big and powerful. It's silent, small and fast.

Fast, he can do. He prides himself on his swift attacks and subtle dodges. Though Raphael has only to catch him, it can take an hour of wearing him down first.

Small, he has no choice. But he's slowly learning to turn it into an advantage.

Silent?

Make no noise--it's almost a neurosis now. Since Splinter's death, there's less for him to say. It's only grown worse since the explosion at the warehouse. He knows his brothers are starting to worry. Donatello looks up from his computer to ask if he's all right. Raphael uses his size to corner him and tell him that he's there if he needs to talk. Michelangelo even accompanies him on long walks when Leonardo knows he'd rather not, trying to make him laugh.

He laughs through his smile. He nods dutifully and breathes that he's fine. When that doesn't work, a kiss and a touch will make them forget the questions for awhile.

He isn't sure what he'll do when that doesn't work anymore. Donatello is a keen observer. There was suspicion in Michelangelo's eyes when they made love in the leaves. And Raphael has been watching him, touching him gently and no longer making demands.

Was he the reason they came to the farm? They only seem to come here when he's broken. He doesn't like the thought of them all confronting him at once.

But he'll wait until they actually say something first.

He certainly won't.


	7. Chapter 7

**31. Never**

The sun was going down when he walked over the last bridge, one of the spider webs of steel and glass that connected all the buildings of New York in lieu of streets. He lightly climbed the last few feet to the roof and spent several minutes watching the cameras pivot. Donatello's security was tight, but Leonardo had helped design it, and he knew the blind spots in the camera movements, the path through the laser lights, and that the electronic lock was a facade for an old-fashioned key lock that few people remembered how to pick, especially in the few seconds before the cameras swept the door again.

Once inside, he locked the door again and went downstairs, using a maintenance access that doubled as an emergency exit. When he reached the hundred and seventy-fifth floor, he hesitated.

He knew what kind of welcome he'd get. Donatello had only one rule--don't leave the building. Not without telling Donatello in advance for an escort, for security, for a GPS signal broadcast on his own set of satellites. Leonardo had broken that rule and vanished for a week.

There had been no news reports about his disappearance, no offers of a reward for information on his whereabouts, but he'd seen the _Hamato Heavy Industry_ boats out on patrol, seen his brother's men searching the crumbling derelicts on the wharves and the abandoned buildings further inland. Donatello had sent out more and more of his hounds as the days crawled by.

He turned the knob, a little surprised to find it unlocked. Michelangelo or Raphael had probably guessed he'd come home this way. Sealing it behind himself, he turned and slipped through their private apartment. The entire floor was theirs alone--a gym, a pool, a studio, a garage, a garden and their own rooms that they rarely visited anymore, along with two full baths and their bedroom.

After a week in the wind and rain, the warmth and light felt like home. But he didn't think he'd be allowed to enjoy the whole of their apartment again for awhile.

The bedroom was empty. He went to the desk and let Donatello know he was home, then knelt and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. The elevator arrived at the far end of the floor, and then footsteps calmly, deliberately, came towards the door. He didn't look up as Donatello came in alone, not even when he stopped in front of him.

"Are you all right?" Donatello asked.

Leonardo nodded, waiting for him to make the next move. He knew what was coming. He closed his eyes and wished the silence would end.

His head snapped to the left, his face stinging painfully. It couldn't be called a slap. Donatello's open-hand strikes stung worse than that. He didn't try to avoid the next one. His brother wasn't out to hurt him. It was simply the only way Donatello could express his feelings.

Donatello seized him by his throat and pulled him to the pile of futons, pushing the blankets aside. Riveted to the floor was a metal ring.

"How long has that been there?" Leonardo asked as he lay down beside it.

Donatello's voice was ragged when he answered.

"Since the third day you were gone."

Something rattled above Leonardo's head. The sound was so familiar that he glanced sideways up at his brother. In Donatello's world of silent computers and glass, the chain was a welcome change. It gleamed like silver, probably newly made, and felt warm as Donatello wrapped one end around his throat. The other end went through the floor ring, and both ends were fastened with a bolt that clicked shut.

As Donatello leaned back, Leonardo gave the chain a short testing jerk. The bolt held, and he noticed it had no obvious lock. It was probably keyed to Donatello's DNA. His brother loved gadgets like that.

"Does it hurt?" Donatello asked.

Leonardo shook his head. He propped himself up on his elbows, but the chain was short, holding him less than a foot from the floor. Donatello bent over him and undid his belt, then searched his wristbands for extra lockpics and tools. He took it all and dropped them into his desk.

When he looked at Leonardo again, locked safely in place, he took his first full breath in a week. All the emotions of the week faded knowing that Leonardo couldn't go anywhere now.

"You know how scared I was, right?" Donatello asked, finally able to think again. "That I haven't slept?"

His nervous breathing and the slap told Leonardo that long before seeing his wide eyes surrounded by dark circles. Even moreso than before, Donatello lived in logic, computer codes and DNA sequences. He didn't indulge in passions except with his siblings, and Leonardo knew what sustained fear and anxiety would do to him.

"I had to feel the city again," Leonardo says softly, not as an excuse but as a reason. "I missed the sound of wind over concrete."

Only someone who has raced across the rooftops, leaping over alleys and edging through steam and smoke would understand. Donatello nods once. He doesn't begrudge him the need, as he's sure Leonardo doesn't begrudge his need to lock him down until his trust returns.

They both know that trust will be a long time in coming. Donatello contacts his secretary to tell her that he's taking the rest of the evening and returns to Leonardo's side. He spends the rest of the night asking him what he did, where he went, if he was hurt at all. By the time Michelangelo and Raphael arrive, late from a movie, Donatello is fast asleep, curled against Leonardo like a child.

**32. Share**

[Removed for content. Available on my livejournal (see profile for address).]

**33. Break**

"You work way too hard, bro'."

Donatello snaps off his laptop just before Michelangelo swivels the chair around to face him. He's learned to put up with these interruptions. He can't seem to go three days in a row in his lab now. Double-nighters hopped up on coffee don't come often anymore, and when they do, he's never alone. When he starts talking to himself and answering his own questions, there's always someone there to drag or carry him to bed.

He still hasn't forgiven Raphael for slinging him over his shoulder.

"I was shutting down for the night already," he grumbles, lying through his teeth.

Michelangelo snorts, crossing his arms as Donatello stands and stretches. It's been over twenty four hours since he first sat down, and five hours of sleep between him and thirty hours straight the day before. As Donatello slowly heads for the door, however, Michelangelo steps in front of him.

"Mikey," Donatello sighs. "I'm not in the mood for a talking-to. I already got it from Leo yesterday."

"You got it from Leo three nights ago," Michelangelo corrects him. "And you blew him off until Raph threatened to throw you into bed again."

Donatello rolls his eyes and tries to go around him, pulling up short as Michelangelo puts his arm on the wall to block him.

"Mikey..."

"You know, I don't mind you getting grumpy when you're tired," Michelangelo says, taking advantage of his extra inches on him and leaning close. "I know you're working on really important stuff in here. But you're hurting yourself--"

"--exhaustion and too much caffeine and unhealthy eating, I know," Donatello snaps. "I'm fine--"

"--you're hurting yourself and you're hurting us," Michelangelo says.

That makes Donatello's mouth click shut.

"You think Leo likes yelling at us? His confidence is fragile as it is. You ignoring him doesn't help. Hell, even Raph doesn't pull that crap anymore."

"Why?" Donatello says, already regretting what he's about to say. "'Cause Leo can't handle being the short one?"

There's silence for a moment. Michelangelo never goes silent unless he's pissed. Donatello glances at the floor and hopes that Leonardo isn't eavesdropping.

"'Cause Leo," Michelangelo grinds out, "actually gives a damn about you."

"Mikey, I didn't..."

"You wouldn't say things like that if you weren't pushing yourself way too hard," Michelangelo says.

There's no lighthearted laughter in his voice. It's all steel and cold edges.

"Staggering around, bumping into things, forgetting where you just put something--you're coming apart at the seams and it ain't fun to watch."

A strange light comes into Michelangelo's eyes. It isn't pleasant. Donatello's seen it before, usually when Michelangelo gets a new and terrible idea.

His suspicions are confirmed when Michelangelo grabs his hand and yanks him out of the lab. Donatello leans back, trying to pull back, but he's tired and his arms are sore from being in one position all day.

The lair is dark and silent. He wonders what time it is. Raphael usually crashes into bed at one or two in the morning. Leonardo rises before six. The lair feels foreboding in the hours between. On the nights he goes to bed then, he either curls up on a sleeping bag in his lab or he creeps quickly to his room, avoiding looking at the vast darkness around him.

Tonight Michelangelo takes him into the darkness, all the way to their dojo. When he flips the lights on, the room feels cold and cramped. It needs one of them practicing to feel inviting. There's a three-way mirror at the far end, chipped along the edges and cracked all the way across the bottom, but it works for them.

Donatello doesn't recognize himself at first. He's lost weight. There are dark circles under his eyes. Michelangelo lifts off the purple mask so he can see them better. They make his eyes look hollow. His skin is pale, no easy feat, but his dark complexion has changed from olive green to dying leaves.

Worst of all, his hands shake. It isn't easy to see at first, but the small twitches don't stop until Michelangelo steps close behind him, reaching around and holding his hands.

He feels no worse than usual. He sees something akin to a scarecrow, tilted and hanging at odd angles. He would expect something like this after being held by Saki for a week. He makes himself stand straight and is surprised by the effort it takes.

"Good thing we haven't been in any fights lately," he says with a faint smile.

"We have," Michelangelo whispers, softening the sting with a kiss to his cheek. "Fighting Shredder's ninjas a couple times heading up to the Brooklyn Bridge. I patched Leo and Raph back up."

Donatello doesn't say anything. What else has he been missing since burying himself in his work? Important work, life-changing work--but here he nearly lost what he was trying to protect.

"I need to tell you something," he says suddenly. "I need to tell all of you something. It's what I've been working on."

"What is it?" Michelangelo asks, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"Not now," Donatello says. "Tomorrow. After I get some sleep, and after breakfast. Then I can tell you."

Michelangelo considers, then nods. He's about to take Donatello up to bed to make sure he goes to sleep when Donatello abruptly turns and faces him, grasping his shoulders like a lifeline.

"Don't let them leave the lair, okay?" he demands. "No one goes up for anything, not until I've told them."

The look in Donatello's eyes burns. Michelangelo stares at him, surprised that he could call up enough strength to grab him like that.

"Okay, no one leaves 'till you're ready," he says. "Promise."

Donatello nods, more to himself than to Michelangelo. He turns away from the mirror, still pressed close to his little brother's side as they head upstairs, turning the lights off after them.

**34. Young**

April doesn't need alien computers to figure it out. When she turns forty-five, it simply dawns on her.

After all, rats only live for a couple of years, and Splinter was nearly twenty when he passed away. If she does the math, that comes out to a terribly long lifespan for her friends.

Their youth shows. Donatello can still work on a project for three days straight until his brothers force him to bed. Leonardo maintains a schedule that would drive anyone else dead with exhaustion. Raphael hasn't slowed down in his nightly trouncing of thugs and punks and ninja. If anything, he enjoys it even more. And Michelangelo's well of energy is nigh bottomless.

She's sure they know, even if they haven't said anything. They come by at least once a week, often every day, keeping her company while Casey's at work. They watch Shadow, first amusing her in her crib and then helping her with her homework, while April slowly builds O'Neil Tech from home. Donatello helps from over her shoulder at her laptop. Michelangelo occasionally cooks. Leonardo's a little quieter lately, but that's a godsend when she needs someone to listen. And Raphael keeps Casey out of her hair, in the garage more often than on the streets.

They know. One day she'll leave them. So will Casey, sooner if the touch of gray in his hair doesn't warn him that he's getting too old to fight the good fight. Eventually so will Shadow, and Shadow's children, and their children...

April watches the world change and stay the same around her. O'Neil Tech will be her way of staying with her friends long after she's gone, even if they're the only ones who look at her picture in some future corporate office. She hopes some day they can go into that office through the front door.

The last days of her summer are almost here. Autumn and winter fast approach. Although she's sad to see the sunny days go, the cool rains of fall and the promise of blankets and hot cocoa by the fire approach like long anticipated relief.

She knows she won't have to see the end of her year alone. She thinks it must be cruel to her friends to take comfort in what must be torture to them.

She tries not to dwell on it.

**35. Hunger**

"I'm not a poet," Raphael grumbled. "An' that's what he wants."

Sprawled on his bed, Michelangelo sighs and settles in for one of Raphael's rants. As Raphael paces back and forth in his room, Michelangelo picks up his notebook and sketches his facial expressions, exaggerating them into caricatures.

"That's not true," Michelangelo says. "He's up for a rough screw in the dojo, same as any of us."

With a half-shrug, Raphael dismisses the thought.

"Not like that. Sure, he lets me pound him into the mat, but it's not like what he gets from you or Don. We don't--"

He cuts himself off, painfully self-conscious of how sappy he sounded. He punches his hand into his fist, wishing he had something or someone to hit. That his older brother is the first target that pops into his head makes it that much worse.

"You know, I haven't talked to him without us yelling at each other since Splinter died," Raphael says. "I've heard you sometimes with him. It's like me and you. You actually talk. Don, too."

"And Usagi?" Michelangelo asks.

Boom, dead on target. Raphael doesn't look at him, but his body says it all. Slumped shoulders, bowed head, the rueful sigh.

No wonder Raph can't spout poetry, Michelangelo thinks, rolling his eyes as he rolls onto his back, letting his head hang off the bed. He does all his talking with his body.

"So, you loff your brodder," Michelangelo says in his best Freud imitation, "unt you feel jealous of der rabbit your brodder often visits, but you cannot bring yourself to communicate in da vey you tink your brodder vants, ja?"

"Ja," Raphael grumbles.

"Vat vould you tell your brodder if you had the gift of poetry, hm?" Michelangelo asks. "Flowery metaphors mit comparisons of his eyes mit der moon, ja?"

"No," Raphael says, staring at the floor. "No, no flowery crap. How'd people ever come up with comparing things to flowers or stars, anyway? We're nothing like that."

Raising an eyeridge, Michelangelo looks at him and waits, intrigued. When Raphael doesn't say anything else, he frowns impatiently.

"Vhat?" he prompts him, trying to keep his playful tone. "Nothing like vhat? Vhat are ve like?"

"You know, kill and be killed, live in the shadows, all that. I looked up love poetry online, you know that? Worst pile of lies I ever read. It was all about comparing the girls to jewels and gold, and it's stupid. It ain't real."

Michelangelo wants to defend love poetry with examples from Shakespeare and Neruda, but he doesn't think that Raphael wants to argue the merits of Petrarchan sonnets.

"And what is real?" he asks, prompting him when Raphael stalls again.

"Him," Raphael says. "No matter what happens, I know he's got my back and I got his. In a fight, that's all that matters. Even if I can't see him--you know how bad he is about fighting from shadows--I know he's there."

Furious pencil scratching on paper makes him turn around. Michelangelo lies on his plastron, writing as fast as he can.

"Mikey--?"

"Shut up a sec."

Raphael stares at him in wonder. He rarely gets to watch Michelangelo bust out a poem. The creative spark is so capricious and comes when it will. It's something to watch, his little brother caught in a frenzy of delight. A momoment passes. Michelangelo closes his eyes, thinks, and writes something else.

And then suddenly tears the page out of his noteboook and hands it to him.

"Mikey?" Raphael glances at the paper and finds his own words copied down.

"That," Michelangelo says, all trace of humor gone as he stands up. "Brush it up a bit, condense it, and give it to him."

"What?" Raphael looks from him to the paper and back to him. "But this ain't poetry. It's just me rambling."

"Raph..."

Michelangelo lifts up on his toes and surprises him with a kiss.

"You're so smart and so stupid at the same time."

And then he's pushing Raphael out of his room, closing the door behind him. Raphael stands in a shock wondering what just happened. Condense it? Brush it up? He blinks and looks down at the notebook paper, slowly bringing it closer to his chest as if afraid it might blow away.


	8. Chapter 8

**36. Speed**

After New York flooded, there were few places left to ride. There was the circuit built over the tops of Brooklyn, but even if it didn't get swamped every storm or windy day, Raphael didn't want to race in circles. If he went up past Queens to the turnpike, he could drive along the coast, but the hour's boat ride to get there made it a hassle.

Jet-skis were fun, but they weren't the same. Choppy waves and smooth water felt nothing like hard asphalt under a roaring engine. Plus there was no telling what was under the surface if he hit something's back and fell off. Not that he believed in any of Mikey's stories about sea serpents or giant sharks, but the regular poisonous sea snakes and common sharks were worrisome enough.

So he bought motorcycles, vintage and new, and learned to savor the rare occasions riding on an alien world or when they took a vacation somewhere with plenty of roads above sea level.

He misses those days, riding side by side with the van--how ridiculous it seems to think back on it, but he misses the raw adventure and thrill of taking on powerful enemies with nothing more than teenage bravado and cobbled-together gear. He wouldn't want to live underground again, not like that, but civilized living comes at a price.

Blood. Thrill. Speed. Mortality.

Sometimes he thinks that their long lives robbed them of what made those lives worth living.

Sometimes he sees the dull despair in Michelangelo's eyes, the longing in Leonardo's, the fear in Donatello's. Those are usually the days he heads to his garage to work on motorcycles he won't be able to ride for years to come. Those are the days he really misses Casey.

**37. Touch**

Leonardo woke up as the door clicked open. It was a tiny sound, barely audible, but he'd always had the best hearing of the family. He sighed and pushed himself up on his elbows, careful not to jerk against the chain connecting his collar to the floor. Only a week had passed, and Donatello would not lose his fear so soon. Leonardo guessed that he had at least another month before Donatello gave him enough chain to sit, and until then he was at the mercy of whatever his younger brothers dreamed up.

"Lunchtime," Michelangelo called, dangling a white paper sack from his hand. "Jeannie had ostrich burgers and those chocolate strawberries leftover from last night's shindig."

Michelangelo came to kneel beside him, setting the sack just out of Leonardo's reach and tossing aside the thin sheet covering him. Leonardo curled up protectively, knowing what was coming, but he smiled. He was in no position to defend himself, relying only on his brother's mercy.

Returning the smile, Michelangelo lay on the nest of blankets, propping himself up on one arm, and ran his fingertips over Leonardo's cheek.

"Which, by the way," Michelangelo murmured, "thanks for getting me out of that. If you hadn't called Don, well...I was getting too close to tossing that reporter lady off the roof."

"You need to tell Don," Leonardo said. Again. They'd had this conversation, or something very similar, for the past five or ten years that Donatello had been throwing festivals on the roof as a PR stunt. "He'll stop inviting them. We'd be better off without reporters there anyway."

"They usually just want interviews," Michelangelo said. "I can never tell which one of them's gonna do the whole 'sex with humans' interrogation. Gah, gives me shivers just thinking about it. They always get that creepy look on their face."

As Michelangelo spoke, he idly touched the skin just under Leonardo's shell. They were all sensitive there, where the wind and rain and old scars never reached, and Leonardo's breath hitched, grew deeper. Michelangelo smiled. A touch here and there, and his brother's control slipped completely.

"You can always stop going to those things." Leonardo closed his eyes, arching up to Michelangelo's fingertips until the chain jerked him short. He sighed, touching the collar around his neck, and lay down again. "I can't always call just because I'm lonely."

"Sure you can," Michelangelo whispered, grabbing the chain in his hand and holding it just taut enough to feel the pull on Leonardo's throat. "As long as Donny keeps you here."

Leonardo didn't answer. Michelangelo leaned over him and nuzzled his cheek, nudging him to get his attention. Leonardo glanced at him from the corner of his eye.

"Is it really that bad?" Michelangelo whispered, checking the door to make sure they were alone. If Donatello thought he might try to free Leonardo, Michelangelo knew he could end up with his own collar. "I know you're letting Don do this, but if it's hurting you--"

"I'm fine," Leonardo said. He reached up to Michelangelo's shoulder, and his brother covered his hand with his own. "Don needs this. He needs to know I can't go anywhere. Besides, it isn't forever. He'll let me go when he's ready."

"Could be years," Michelangelo said, although he didn't believe it would take that long.

"Could be," Leonardo said, but he smiled as he did. "Stay with me 'till then?"

"You kidding?"

Grinning again despite his misgivings, Michelangelo took a kiss and nipped at his jaw.

"You're a pain in the ass to catch when you aren't chained up. I'm not gonna miss a day of this."

Michelangelo pulled the blanket over them. No one outside could see through the windows, but he felt too exposed to the entire city otherwise. He crawled on top of Leonardo and eased down as Leonardo parted his thighs for him. Only in here, their secure inner sanctum in an already heavily defended skyscraper, could they both relax enough for this. Usually that meant night time, when they all came to bed, and that meant sharing. Which was fun, but...he loved being selfish, too.

Tomorrow he would ask Donatello to at least lengthen the chain so Leonardo could sit up, move around, anything. Tonight, he would enjoy a treat he didn't get to indulge in very often.

**38. Waves**

The night before he explains everything, Donatello barely sleeps. He listens to Michelangelo softly breathe in and out, and he lies snug in his arms. Now that he's been forced to bed, he feels just how badly he needed this rest. Even if Michelangelo hadn't shown him his own reflection in the mirror, scarecrow-like and wilting, his body feels like brittle lead, too heavy and about to shatter. Only his anxiety keeps him awake, drifting in and out of dark dreams.

By the time morning comes around, he's rehearsed what he wants to say dozens of times, and he can honestly tell Michelangelo that he feels a little better, a little stronger. He heads downstairs to gather what he'll need while Michelangelo gathers Leonardo and Raphael.

In small words, Donatello explains what he's discovered to his brothers. They all sit around the breakfast table, cereal or eggs or waffles forgotten, and listen. When he spreads his print outs and formula and notes in front of them, they pay attention--actually lean forward and try to follow along.

Donatello knows they don't understand the math, but they trust it, and they can at least grasp the theory behind the calculations, understand a little of the chemistry and biology. TLC and the Discovery channel are good for something after all. He uses the example of Splinter's lifespan and shows them the pencil-sketch chart he hastily threw together that morning.

When he's done, there's silence. Leonardo turns the formula towards himself and looks over the numbers. Donatello knows he's crap at math, but Leonardo can guesstimate round figures very quickly. It's just a battle skill, counting the enemies on the field, and Leonardo's learned to put it to use when Donatello starts going on about numbers.

Michelangelo stares at the chart and makes his own guesses about how long Splinter lived and how long they have. He has an easier time with real life examples and concrete images he can hold in his mind. He understands a rat living twenty years instead of two. The analogy turns more frightening the longer he thinks about it.

Raphael simply sits still and lets it wash over him, trusting Donatello's word.

Klunk jumps up into Michelangelo's lap and purrs as he hugs her. They all stare at her, and the realization becomes all too clear. Her passing will hurt, but now they risk forgetting her altogether.

"How long do we have?" Leonardo whispers.

"I can't tell," Donatello says. "Not for sure."

"Hundreds?" Raphael asks.

"Thousands," Donatello says. He forces the answer out like a curse. "Thousands of years. At least."

Now for the hard part, the worst part. Donatello hasn't been this scared in years, save for the handful of times he's come closest to dying. He didn't want to admit it at all in the perverse, superstitious, childish fear that saying it would make it true.

"But that's only age," he whispers. "We can still get sick or hurt. We can still get killed."

Raphael's about to protest that long life doesn't make them cowards, but he follows Donatello's look towards Klunk. And fear slowly pools in his stomach and twists into a big knot as he gazes around the table at his sibings. He imagines an empty chair at the breakfast table. He imagines years going by and memories becoming a blur. He imagines not recognizing one of their faces in a photograph and--

He runs into the kitchen and throws up.

Tears are running down Michelangelo's face. Leonardo's hands shake. Donatello doesn't have to guess at their thoughts. Michelangelo will have to say goodbye to all of his friends and pets again and again and again. Leonardo has to re-evaluate the value of clan honor when honor might mean being alone or leaving his brothers alone forever.

He feels like he's dropped a rock in a lake and the ripples are still spreading out.

**39. Candle**

Leonardo finds the poem on his nightstand, weighed down by a lit candle in its heavy brass holder. At first he doesn't understand. Michelangelo always writes his poetry in calligraphy on folded paper reminiscent of fans, and the poems are always short. This is longer on plain paper in messy handwriting--

He recognizes Raphael's voice in the second line. Raphael wrote this. The fact knocks the breath out of him, and he sits down on his bed, stunned.

_love poetry_

Worst pile of lies I ever read.  
comparing you to jewels and gold, its stupid.

It ain't real.  
It ain't you.

no matter what happens, I know you got my back and I got yours.  
In a fight, that's all that matters  
Even if I can't see you--  
so bad about hiding in shadows--  
I know your there.

Emotions overrun him so he can't think. Does this mean Raphael forgives him for seeing Usagi? Or is he asking Leonardo to stop and stay safely at home? To come out of the shadows? Does he mean that he only sees him when they're in a fight?

Leonardo shakes his head and reads the poem again. It's rough with errors and emotion. It isn't meant to be analyzed. He reads it for exactly what it says.

Trust, love, and violent reality. And a tease that he hides in the dark.

After being confronted for visiting Usagi, it's not what he'd expected from his demanding brother.

He sits and thinks and wonders how to respond long after the candle has melted and drowned.

**40. Ice**

Donatello loves watching Michelangelo paint. It isn't something he has time to watch often, being the brains of a global firm, but there are nights that they break their own rules about no distractions in the bedroom and allow Michelangelo to bring in his canvas. They sit together and watch him work, amazed at the delicate techniques practiced over the endless years.

Donatello's never tried his own hand at it. He doesn't enjoy drawing like his brother does, and his schematics and blueprints are only technical, the master keys with which Hamato Heavy Industries plans most of its megafauna enclosures. Once in a while Michelangelo still sneaks into his office and draws a kid playing fetch with a sabertooth tiger in its cage, or a mermaid in an aquatic biosphere.

But Donatello has tried poetry.

When Michelangelo was at a gallery show, Donatello snuck a look at his endless notebooks. There were handcopies of famous poems, but he ignored them in favor of what Michelangelo had written, scratched out and scribbled over. He found Leonardo's calligraphy, some of them so old that the paper threatened to crumble under his fingertips. Even Raphael's handwriting appeared, messy and straightforward and bluntly beautiful.

When he reads them again--recreated from photographs, a technique he usually reserves for corporate spying--he feels like he is diving into his brothers, delving deep into them like lakes that he only sees the surface of.

Curious, Donatello has conducted his experiment in secret. He knows he cannot become a great writer, so he doesn't let his initial failures discourage him. He has been writing for twenty years. So far he discards every poem in the trashcan, embarassed by the lack of emotion and his overly technical voice.

He tells no one. If he is a lake, then his surface is covered with ice. He couldn't bear to show them to anyone and see their faces freeze in a fake smile with an overly polite nod. He writes in their bedroom--the only place safe enough--reads it over, feels a tiny knot in his stomach and throws the poem away.

His brothers haven't told him that they steal his poems out of the trashcan, unfolding and smoothing them out, collecting them. They're afraid that if he knew, he'd stop writing altogether. It's a secret link to him they're afraid of losing, like a hole cut into a frozen lake.


	9. Chapter 9

**41. Bonds**

Metallic rustling gently rouse Leonardo out of sleep. Blinking slowly, he focuses on the blur that turns into Donatello kneeling beside him, a pile of chains at his feet. Leonardo watches wordlessly as he threads the new chain through the loop riveted to the floor. Donatello locks it, then finds the loose end in the pile.

"Lift your head," he orders.

Obeying, Leonardo tilts his head up and lets him add the second chain around his throat. The weight of both chains drags at him, but a moment later, the first chain is removed, unlocked through a voice command. He watches his brother take it away, and then Donatello motions for him to sit up.

After a month and a half of being locked a foot from the floor, with only brief respites when taken to the bath, sitting up is a blessing. The new chain is three feet long, enough to sit straight, to kneel. If he had to, he could even fight with this much length. Low sweeps and kicks--

Stupid. If he realized that, then of course Donatello did, too. Leonardo sighs and watches him take the first, shorter chain and lock the ends around his ankles. His feet are hobbled, shackled instead of bound together, but it's enough to keep him from struggling effectively.

"I'm not going to try to escape," Leonardo says. "You know that."

Donatello nods. "I know. I--I left your hands free."

Leonardo realizes how hard even that is for Donatello, and he looks away. Arguing is useless.

Grabbing the chain, Donatello yanks hard against the loop on the floor, making sure it won't come loose. He gives a gentler tug on his brother, satisfied by the way Leonardo follows the motion of his hand.

"Does it hurt?"

"No." Leonardo looks up at him, separated only by inches, and stares into his eyes. "Does it still hurt?"

"...yes." Donatello checks the chain around his ankles one more time to be sure. "I won't let you leave again."

Leonardo bows his head. He'd known that his punishment could last for months, even years. Now he finally began to feel how long a month could be. As Donatello stands, something so simple which Leonardo longed to do again, he lies down and ignores the chain at his throat.

"I need you to do me a favor later," Donatello says, touching where the chain circled his neck. "If you're willing."

"You'll let me do something?" Leonardo asks.

"I think we have a ghost in our security. The enclosures on level twelve keep unlocking at random, and there's a lapse in the cameras every time it happens."

"Mechanical failure?"

"I don't think so," Donatello says, shaking his head. "My diagnostics found nothing. No, I think someone's trying to cross the sea in broad daylight."

The reference to one of the stratagems makes Leonardo smile. "Enough minor glitches and no one will notice the real one?"

"Exactly." Donatello waves away his initial protest. "I know you don't 'get' electronics, but you have that instinct for finding spies and thieves. I'll bring a laptop so you can work up here."

"You'll have to explain how it works," Leonardo warns him. "I haven't used one in ages."

"I will," Donatello says. "You shouldn't have a problem. They're much more user friendly now."

Donatello stands, and Leonardo feels the urge to follow at his heels and shadow him through the day, the way he used to before he needed to disappear for a week. Donatello is as lethal as ever, quick to spot an attack before it happens, but even so, Leonardo hates to see him alone.

"You always have Mikey or Raph with you, right?" he suddenly blurts.

Hesitating, Donatello has to think a moment before he realizes what Leonardo means. He nods once.

"Raph's with me. Mikey's usually up here in his studio. He doesn't leave often." Donatello ignores his confused look and walks back to the door, sparing another glance at him before he disappears.

Leonardo lies down again. He feels like a pet that's bitten its master and has to stay locked up. Then again, he's seen some of the restraints that Donatello has come up with for their larger experiments. The cloned moa birds wear masks with reinforced beak coverings chained to the ceiling to keep them stretched taut and prevent them from kicking or pecking.

He reminds himself that he's lucky he isn't muzzled.

It's a cold comfort.

**42. Freedom**

Michelangelo mingles with the crowd, sipping champagne and chatting about symbol and perspective, the clarity of the line and the sensuality of paint, with the rush of his heart fluttering in his chest. He's surrounded by humans, and none of them scream, back away or shy from his touch.

He shakes hands. He makes small talk. He wears a specially designed tux, tailored and modified so that he didn't look like he'd squeezed into a poorly adapted human outfit. It was Donatello's way of giving his permission and saying congratulations in one. Raphael had said he looked like a sick penguin, but he'd grinned with pride at his baby brother. Leonardo had told him to watch his back and looked at him as if Michelangelo was going into a battle even their big brother was afraid of.

It's his third gallery showing. A few sketches line the far wall, meditations on his brothers and memories of under Manhattan, but its the alien landscapes that capture the audience tonight. He's painted Usagi's planet and a few portraits of his friends from beyond the Nexus.

It isn't easy to catch the otherworldliness of plants that should be mundane. A cherry tree is a cherry tree anywhere, after all. But it's the plastic sheen to the petals, the swirls of the bark instead of the rough lines, the sheer brilliance of the colors, that turn what would merely be a science fiction book cover to a near-photograph that captures more of its soul than a camera could.

He didn't show Usagi's portrait to his siblings. Leonardo likes to pretend that time stops for everyone else, too, and Raphael is glad that they no longer visit. The portrait is recent, and the white fur has turned grey at the edges. The samurai teaches, rarely dueling anymore, and prefers to hold a cup of tea or sake instead of a sword.

Michelangelo answers a few questions about the Nexus, mentioning the tournaments they'd fought there to add color to the reporter's interview. When she leaves, finally giving him a moment to himself, he looks up at the mural of the plum blossoms in Usagi's world. Delicate petals bloom wide among the frost.

He knows what it feels like to fight the encroaching winter. Sometimes every year feels like another snowflake.

**43. Heaven**

Three years have gone by since Donatello told them they would live for thousands of years. In that time, Leonardo has grown quieter and quieter until, finally, he hasn't said anything for half a year.

He isn't completely silent. He lets himself nod or shake his head, laugh softly, and let slip tiny little noises during sex. The last one isn't entirely under his control, but it's okay as long as it's nothing but moans and whimpers.

They've come up here to the farm ostensibly to get away from the lair and lingering memories of Splinter. Leonardo knows the truth. They're doing their best to make him talk without actually saying that's why they're here. In time, their frustration will make them blurt it out and force the issue, and then he'll have to give in. But for now they ask questions and hope he'll answer with something beyond a soft smile.

Raphael's on top of him today, taking him on a bed of autumn leaves that rustle and crunch beneath them. The scent of dying grass fills the air, carried by a chilly breeze. This morning, frost covered the ground, and the dirt hasn't softened since the sun came up and melted everything.

On this trip, he's coupled with all of them repeatedly. The pain of losing family and friends, the anticipation of living for far too long, dreading what will come next--it's a hand clenched around his heart and throat. At first he couldn't speak because of the sick feeling of impending loss. Now he can't speak because it's too easy stay quiet.

So much easier to lie in bed with them, listening to them whisper around him, to curl up on a shoulder and drowse as they flip channels. He knows it's self-centered, but he likes how close they draw to him. There's no yelling, no accusations or blame. No complaints about being given orders. Maybe soon they'll demand answers and force him to talk, falling back on familiar names and insults and expectations. Leader, big brother, responsible--

He hates those words. He can't be the big brother for thousands of years. He can barely make sense of this lifetime. How can he begin to think of the lifetimes ahead of him?

The leaves are cool and damp under his skin. Raphael's breath fogs like mist and, for a little while, the future fades and there's nothing but this moment, the sensations that feel like a heaven he won't see for a long, long time.

**44. Regret**

_From the desk of Hamato Donatello_

That investment in HP stock.  
The hostile takeover of what had once been Saki Enterprises.  
Ever deciding to try human style clothing.  
Hiding preliminary designs for a spaceship.

Not petting Klunk more.  
Missing April's funeral.  
Missing Casey's funeral.  
Missing Shadow's last birthday.  
Not remembering all of April's descendants.

Letting Leonardo stop talking for so long.  
Not attending Mikey's gallery shows.  
Putting off building a road for Raphael to race on.  
Not chaining Leonardo to the floor a day before he ran.

Yelling when Raph broke the lair's heater.  
Scolding Leo when he couldn't keep up with his explanations.  
Hitting Mikey for stepping on a clock he was repairing.  
Asking Splinter for a real toolkit when they could barely scavenge food.

Exploring the tunnels without permission.  
Finding the rusted screwdrivers.  
Opening the heavy alarm clock and discovering gears and wires.  
Putting them back together in a way that worked.  
Taking that step away from the family  
and never coming back.

**45. Hollow**

After a few hundred years, Michelangelo has seen religions rise and disappear, cities crumble and spring up from the ashes, great men rise and evil men topple. He has read libraries. He has studied religions. He has published volumes of poetry and stories and essays.

His paintings hang in the most renowned museums in the world. He has been called a hack, a genius, a window to the universe.

His brothers call him the little brother. The baby. His good ideas are still reacted to with surprise. Teasing surprise. Surprise nonetheless.

Security details escort him any time he steps out of Hamato Heavy Industries. He would be insulted if he didn't realize the true reason for them. It isn't that Donatello can't trust him to come back. One day in bed as he lay between Leonardo and Raphael, with Donatello at his desk like a king at his harem, Michelangelo simply understood.

They all crowd around him, keeping him in the center, safe in their arms. There's a fragile desperation in how they hold him, in how they touch him to make sure he's still there.

Donatello is the mind, he's decided. Raphael and Leonardo are the hands, or maybe the tao of their soul. Michelangelo is the heart. If he's ripped away, everything stops. Lose him, and perhaps they wouldn't convince each other that they still had a reason to keep going.

So after a rare exhibition, he comes back upstairs, shedding bodyguards along the way, and comes to the bedroom. Donatello is still working at his laptop, smiling in acknowledgment as he enters but going back to his blueprints. On the floor, stretched out on a faux bearskin rug, Leonardo and Raphael lay curled together to enjoy the warmth of the fireplace. They make room for him automatically, and he slips between them and lets them lock him in place again.

"Welcome back, little bro'," Raphael murmurs, nuzzling his shoulder and going back to sleep.

Michelangelo tells himself it's the heart's duty to stay locked up tight in a ribcage. There are days when the bones seem to crush him a little tighter, squeezing until there's nothing left in his empty chest.


	10. Chapter 10

**46. Name**

**L**ater on, he'd admit all the practice would never be  
**E**nough. He would never be fast enough,  
**O**r strong enough, smart enough or skilled enough.  
**N**ot that he hadn't truly protected them.  
**A**s the years, decades, centuries passed, though,  
**R**etreating further into the shadows,  
**D**id he finally realize that he belonged  
**O**utside the spotlight, silent, dark.

**D**igital interface with an intuitive layout,  
**O**rdered pair coordinates dictating placement,  
**N**atural outcomes and irrational solutions,  
**A**ll data accepted, processed, analyzed and recorded.  
**T**he outcome does not change. The damned and miserable  
**E**quation never changes. The same results always  
**L**ead to paranoia, despair, brief snatches of joy,  
**L**oneliness, loss, memories blurring into fantasy.  
**O**nly three hundred years down. Thousands more to go.

**M**aybe it's the waiting.  
**I**t always made him antsy.  
**C**ounting the seconds to showtime,  
**H**umming the Jeopardy tune,  
**E**ating one popcorn at a time.  
**L**ately, though, it's worse.  
**A**nxiety that doesn't fade.  
**N**ow he counts months,  
**G**oing on years.  
**E**ventually something will happen.  
**L**iving in this comfy prison isn't an  
**O**ption. Not forever. It just isn't.

**R**eally, sometimes, he wonders why they don't adapt.  
**A**fter all this time and they're still alive.  
**P**erhaps one day he'd be alone, last one standing, and  
**H**ell, suicide is an honorable, acceptable solution,  
**A**in't it? The last man standing needn't stand for too long.  
**E**ternity doesn't have to be this slow, intermindable drag.  
**L**ong ago, they were once teenagers. Inside, he thinks he still is.

**47. Machine**

They've all spent time with the staff. It's the first weapon they trained with, after all. Simple, elegant, it flows with the body, deflects attack and slips through any guard with swift, surgical precision. After group practice when they're all supposed to work on individual weapons training, Donatello runs through a kata, stretches, and sets his staff back in its rack.

Before he gets out of the dojo, a hand falls on his shoulder. He smiles and stops. He doesn't have to turn around. He knows who it is.

"Done already?" Leonardo asks. "I know you're good with the bo, but you should work with the spear at least."

"Yeah," Donatello says, smiling over his shoulder. "But I've got a ton of work waiting for me. The water heater's about to go out, the van needs rewiring, and I want to get that new motor in the fridge as soon as possible. If I start now, I might finish before bed."

"And skip dinner again," Leonardo sighs.

"I'll try to take a break," Donatello promises, and he actually means it, even if he doesn't think it'll happen.

Leonardo lets go and Donatello disappears into his workroom. When dinner rolls around and there's no sign of the resident genius, Leonardo takes a plate and quietly opens the door.

The room is mostly dark, save for a circle of light at the table. Donatello stands bent over the desk lamp, delicately turning a screwdriver and a pair of pliers in the exposed center of a motor. Leonardo waits and watches. He doesn't often get to watch his brother work--Donatello likes to say that solitude is best for his concentration--but stealth is Leonardo's specialty.

As he watches, Leonardo can't help but study his brother. He wonders if Donatello knows how much he looks like he's meditating. His hands barely move except to gently turn a part and twist it into place. He takes a wire and threads it to hold two pieces together. He looks like a doctor performing surgery, expertly turning the parts into a machine that he's finally satisfied with.

When Donatello stands, sighing out in relief, Leonardo comes closer with dinner, making enough noise to warn his brother that he's there. Donatello smiles in surprise and takes the offered plate.

"Guess I'm missing dinner again, huh?" he says by way of apology.

He doesn't have to apologize, he finds. A kiss and reassurance that he'll finish soon is enough. It's only when Leonardo leaves him and he sits down to a working dinner that Donatello begins to doubt that's all he has to do to make up for it. Leonardo tends to demand high prices.

It's ten thirty by the time he comes out. Ten thirty means it's an early night, and he's pretty sure that not skipping dinner helped keep him working at a good clip. He should go to bed, catch up on sleep, but there's a stack of engineering journals he'd like to start on--

"I was wondering when you'd finish."

Donatello stops and looks around for a moment. If his big brother doesn't want to be found, then there's no point in looking, but it doesn't sound like Leonardo has a punishment round of hide and seek in mind. Nope, there he is, leaning against the wide arc of the dojo.

"How long've you been waiting?" Donatello asks.

"Stopped practicing when I heard you put things away. I'm glad you finished soon, too."

Leonardo motions for him to join him, and Donatello only glances longingly at his room before obeying. More practice, probably. His suspicions are confirmed when Leonardo hands him a single katana.

"If it's just training," Donatello says, "I'd rather go through my bo katas again. I'm lousy on the sword."

"I know," Leonardo says. "That's why we'll work with it for an hour or so."

There's no arguing when he gets like this. Donatello knows from past observation and experience. Swallowing his sigh, he takes the sword, wrapping his hand around the cold steel and leather wrap of the hilt, and he holds it in the beginning position. A long training session with a weapon he isn't comfortable with isn't how he wanted to spend the rest of the night.

Which is why he tenses and breathes too quickly when Leonardo comes up behind him, touching Donatello's shoulders and slowly moving down his arms to either side of his hands. Donatello allows him to reposition his fingers on the hilt, angling them properly.

"You're so rusty with this," Leonardo whispers. "I wish you'd practice with more than just your staff."

"I don't have time," he argues, "not if I'm going to keep us alive down here. I know you don't like the bo, but I'm already good at it--better than anything else, really."

Leonardo sighs and presses a kiss to Donatello's temple. Already Donatello doesn't mind this practice session as much. If this keeps up, he would practice through the night. He's sore from standing over tools all day, but Leonardo is always hot from training, almost as much as Raphael. The heat soothes his overtired muscles.

"It isn't that I don't like it," Leonardo says. "It's a good weapon. It's just so basic...and you can't count on always having it there. You have to practice with other weapons just in case."

"I know..." Donatello grumbles. "But I keep dropping the sais and I'm sick of hitting myself in the head with nunchucks, and everyone laughs when I mess up."

"So we'll work on swords and spears," Leonardo says. "Late when no one's around to watch. Okay?"

"Leo..." Donatello's voice is close to a whine, and if he was less tired, he would feel embarrassed.

"Please?"

Giving up on the sword for a moment, Leonardo comes around and makes Donatello meet his look. It's sincere, frustrated--worse, there's that horrible worry that's growing more and more pronounced as they live without Splinter.

"Don, if something happened to you while you were out collecting things...I mean, if you aren't going to take one of us with you..."

Donatello hates hearing that excuse, that he needs protection when he goes scavenging, as if he's their damsel in distress. They've all needed rescue as often as he has. Heck, it's only because they're so forgiving that they don't bring up the times Leonardo's been manipulated by the enemy. If Donatello needs more training, Leonardo needs more sense.

He lets the sword fall and folds Leonardo up in his arms. A moment has to pass before Leonardo relaxes enough to return the hug. Donatello still finds it strange that his big brother is turning into the shortest brother. He's already two inches taller. If the current rate continues, Donatello's sure he'll have three inches on him come spring.

"I'm fine," he insists. "I can hold my own in a fight. Even if I'm not so good with the other weapons, you know no one's better than me on the staff. I've even beat you sometimes in practice."

There's no reply to that. It's true. As he grows taller and gets a few more inches' reach on him, Donatello wins more often than not. Besides, what's another missed training? Donatello's too tired to practice and too hot now to leave. He presses closer and takes a kiss, a real kiss this time, then plies his brother a little harder for another.

They're on the floor within seconds, family and practice forgotten. Leonardo lies on his shell, legs slightly open for Donatello to push wide. The smooth skin here on their inner thighs is usually scar free, and Donatello loves to feel it under his calloused hand. For his part, Leonardo breathes harder and closes his eyes. Donatello can't help but think how easy Leonardo is to control, to command like a machine--obedient, quiet and responsive.

It isn't a nice thought--Donatello is glad no one else knows how happy he is that their training task master will soon be too short to make them do anything--but he likes Leonardo on his back, silent but for small noises, holding him close as if Donatello is a lifeline.

That much Donatello understands. They all hold onto each other tighter now. He doesn't want to think about any of his siblings getting hurt, but he wishes they all knew he can take care of himself. He isn't a ninja prodigy, but he isn't an incompetent nerd, either. At least Leonardo isn't arguing anymore. Leonardo doesn't say anything. He might stare into Donatello's eyes or touch back, or smile in satisfaction for him. Nothing else. The rest of the night is silent. Donatello doesn't know why, but he welcomes the change. And happily enough, the silence lasts for the next day, too. And the day after that. And the day after that.

It's around the next week when Donatello realizes that his brother didn't stop talking for a few days. And that this is a problem he isn't sure how to repair.

**48. Thunder**

Great pieces of cement and masonry exploded from the New York skyline. As concrete and steel fell, some small as marbles, some large as cars, people ran screaming in all directions. A few tried to shelter in buildings as other skyscrapers crumbled, but most abandoned their cars and the few possessions they'd tried to bring, making a mad dash to the hastily formed lines of the National Guard.

The stench of blood, filth and burning fuel turned the air thick and black. Dust swept through the city, carried by the wind blowing hot from the engines of alien craft overhead.

Wasting a moment to catch his breath, Raphael grit his teeth and braced himself as another bolt of plasma tore from the silver craft. The corner of the roof burst away with a concussive blast that threw him against the bricks. It was impossible to tell where the plasma bolts came from. They simply crackled along the edge of the smooth ships, then gathered at a point and shot down among the people below.

He wiped dust out of his eyes. His entire body was gray, covered in vaporized offices and office workers, and dark patches showed where blood streaked his skin. He hadn't slept the night before, too busy following Donatello through the ship that crashed. Now that his brother knew how to destroy them, Raphael had somehow force another ship to crash, the largest ship.

Gleaming silver, the ship at the center of the alien fleet dwarfed every other vessel, flying slowly while small fighters zipped around. That was the one Raphael had to get in. Without doors and without a hull cracked in half from slamming into the earth, but Raphael had to find a way in.

Sick coughing at his side made him look down. Donatello held one hand over his stomach, leaning hard on his staff with the other, coughing out dust and his own blood. Raphael didn't hear him so much as he felt his harsh breathing against his shoulder. After so many bursts of plasma and tank rounds--another round of depleted uranium slammed into an alien ship, sending it crashing--Raphael only heard ringing in his ears. He hoped it was temporary.

He tapped Donatello's shoulder, careful of the burn that ran down to his brother's elbow. Time to go. He signed to ask if Donatello could follow, and if he was in any shape to keep moving. Donatello nodded once, although he didn't look happy about it.

No time to look for Leonardo or Michelangelo. He had to trust that they were all right. Raphael waved at his brother, and together they abandoned their hiding spot to run across the roof and leap off the edge. The command ship hovered beside the Chrysler building, and they would have to take to the streets to reach it.

The roof behind them ceased to exist a minute after they jumped. Climbing claws and grappling hooks saw them safely down, but they had to run through debris and terrified humans who looked at them and thought they saw aliens. Raphael was glad that he couldn't hear them screaming, but their wide-eyed looks of horror were bad enough. And even worse, some of those humans were armed soldiers.

Bad enough he had to dodge plasma bursts, but the friendly fire was insult to injury. His snarl at them didn't help matters, and he told himself that he wasn't doing this to save humans. He was only trying to save his family.

That's what he told himself again when they saw how many stairs they would have to run up. There was no way they'd reach the top in time. He hoped Bishop could stall the damn thing for a few more minutes.

**49. Midnight**

The trick to deception is turning neon into midnight. Crossing the sun under cover of day. There are little pockets of darkness everywhere if you know where to look. More if you can fit into them. Splinter taught them how to hide. At first he thought Leonardo absorbed it best of his sons simply because he was the only one who paid close attention. Then he thought that, as they grew older and more adept, that Leonardo simply had a natural gift for hiding.

When their games of ninja hide and seek left his brothers losing Leonardo in empty, well-lit rooms, Splinter began to worry.

"Do not fall too deeply into the shadows," Splinter tried to warn him. "Do not trust in the dark so much. It will swallow you."

Leonardo would dutifully nod, but the addiction in his eyes was clear, with no antidote in sight. Leonardo clothed himself in shadows, found the blind spots and angles where people simply didn't look, and lived in those empty spaces, comfortably concealed.

Only when he assumed command did he come back to the light, a touch uneasy in the bright twilight of dusk and streetlamps. But Splinter still watched, still worried that his son would disappear.

And when Splinter felt his body begin to fail, felt old age leech all his strength and speed, dim his sight, he tried not to dwell on Leonardo's craving. After all, his brothers managed him well. Donatello gently coaxed him into conversation, Michelangelo readily pounced on him playfully, and Raphael...well, the lair was never quiet when Raphael turned his look on Leonardo.

Trust. Splinter would have to trust that Leonardo would yield to his brothers' attentions. As long as Leonardo led them, he wouldn't lose himself in darkness and silence.

But sometimes, when Splinter watched the games of tag and hide-and-seek in the lair, waiting for a winter storm to stop...he watched Leonardo find the darkness and make his home in the emptiness.

And Splinter worried about what the future might bring.

**50. Danger**

Stretching so that he pops several joints in his back, Leonardo sighs and lays down on the couch, reclining against Raphael's side. Drafts often blow in from the windows, but Raphael is warm, especially as he puts an arm around his shoulders and pulls the afghan across his body. The television is on but the volume is low, and they both drowse as they wait for Michelangelo to finish cooking dinner.

They're still at the farm. Six months have passed and they still haven't forced an answer out of Leonardo yet. His quiet smiles and small wordless gestures, a rare surprised laugh, are all anyone hears.

Donatello comes in and sits on Leonardo's other side, stealing some of the afghan so he can curl close. He's gained back some of the weight he's lost through overworking himself, and his hands don't shake anymore. Leonardo doesn't know what Michelangelo said to him, but whatever it was, he's grateful. It was more than he could do.

"Bird's in the oven," Michelangelo says, tossing the mitts on the counter before he comes into the living room. "Got another half hour or so before it's done."

Leonardo expects him to sit down on the sofa or on the floor, or even to drape himself over all of them. Instead Michelangelo sits on the edge of the couch in front of him, blocking him in, and only now does Leonardo realize he's trapped. He shifts, turning slightly to see if he could jump over the back of the couch, but Raphael holds him firm. Donatello lies a little more on his legs, and Michelangelo touches his face, meeting his look.

"We need to talk," Michelangelo says.

Leonardo met his look evenly, but he didn't answer. Had they planned this? Of course they had. There was no escaping this now, not when all three of them were together in it.

"Or more like you need to talk," Michelangelo continues. "You've been quiet for months. What gives?"

Leonardo doesn't look away, but he can't help closing his mouth a little tighter, as if he's afraid the words will slip out. Michelangelo cups his face, and his thumb runs over his lips. But when Leonardo tries to take the thumb in his mouth, Michelangelo smiles knowingly and pulls his hand back.

"Uh-uh," he says. "Every time we try to get you to talk, you distract us pretty good. No foursome tonight."

Not good. Leonardo frowns and looks away, but he can't look away from Michelangelo without looking at Donatello. Those honest brown eyes always make him twist up inside. Donatello never lies, even with his emotions. And Donatello stares at him out of a well of anxiety and fear.

"Please," Raphael murmurs in his ear. "You'd worry if it was one of us, wouldn't you? I wanna hear you again. Heck, I'd be happy if I heard you tell me to go practice."

Leonardo winces and sinks a little. The movement doesn't escape their notice, and Michelangelo frowns. He catches Raphael's glance, and Raphael nods and puts his fingers under Leonardo's chin, making him look up.

"Leo..." Michelangelo put his hands on either side of Leonardo's face. "You have to tell us what's wrong. We won't get it if you don't say anything."

Leonardo shakes his head, but Michelangelo doesn't let go. As Leonardo squirms, Raphael puts his arms around him and holds him tighter.

"Big bro'. Please?"

It's been easier and easier to stay silent, which makes it all the harder to answer. He has to close his eyes. He doesn't want to see how they look at him now.

"I can't," he says, and his voice is hoarse from disuse. "I can't be that anymore."

"Be what?" Michelangelo asks.

"I can't be the oldest," Leonardo says. "Not for thousands of years. I just can't."

Nothing. No answer, no reply. Nothing. There's supposed to be relief when something's confessed, but admitting this weakness makes him feel a thousand times worse.

"Oh wow..." Michelangelo whispers. "I didn't even think of that."

"But I thought you like ordering us around," Raphael said. "You got worse about making us practice ever since--well, ever since..."

Ever since Leonardo lost all his authority. Without Splinter to back him up, there's no weight to his words. None of them wants to say it, but the thought lingers, teeters on the edge, ready to fall and shatter around them.

"You stopped training," Leonardo says. He doesn't mean for it to sound like an accusation, but it comes out that way. "The fighting hasn't stopped, but I can't make you do anything. I kept failing and..."

He stops talking. He feels naked in front of them, and their silence makes it worse. Being quiet only works if he can float within their conversation. He stares at the floor, and after a moment, Raphael lets him turn and rest more comfortably on his shoulder.

Dinner comes late. It nearly burns before Michelangelo remembers it. And when it's served, no one speaks.


	11. Chapter 11

**Casting Stones at the River: Drabbles 51-55**  
by KC

**Summary**: How long do mutant turtles live? Thousands of years. They survive on poetry, love, and clinging to each other like lifelines.  
**Other info**: 100 drabbles ficlets focusing on fragments of a larger whole. Not in chronological order.  
**Pairings**: OT4 (all together and in various pairings), and in this section, Usagi and Bishop

**51. Wishes**

A wish...

for a road to race on  
for reruns of the Viking Bikers from the Dark Side of Mars  
that I don't forget today, or yesterday, or the day before that  
for a 1967 Firebird carburetor  
that our old photos never get destroyed  
to know if that really was a sea serpent I spotted in the street  
that Klunkette doesn't miss the litter box again  
that we go to Dragon Dai Won for lunch again, all of us  
for Alzheimer's to kick in so Mikey forgets the damn Battle Nexus  
that the creepy reporter woman won't be at my gallery show tomorrow  
that Don really gets that Masamune from the collector  
for Bishop to drop by again this week  
that I keep dreaming of April  
...of Casey  
...of Klunk  
...of Splinter  
and that Splinter stops scolding me  
for knowing if that waiter is really Saki reincarnated  
convincing everyone that the 37th floor is haunted  
the laundry machines never blow their fuses again  
that we'll all be together to the very end  
that when our world changes again, it isn't too painful  
for a thousand wishes  
that all come true

**52. Confusion**

The battle is made of confusion and chaos, smoke and broken windows. New York is made of shattered glass, warped steel and dead bodies, and the moans of the dying are drowned by the hum of alien engines, by fire roaring in skyscrapers. Blood and dry dust fill the air, a sick scent that fills the lungs and coats the mouth. Everyone still fighting is colored gray, shoulders hunched in weary determination.

Which is why they don't recognize each other at first. They're are two silhouettes, one tall and straight, one hidden in a singed and tattered cloak with a hood, and they only look at each other long enough to see that they're both fighting aliens who haven't even identified themselves or explained the invasion. All they know is that they're not the clawed, snarling fighters dropped by the spacecraft, and that's enough for now.

So Bishop shoots the aliens as they leap from low-flying carriers, sending blue blood arcing out from scaled skin, and even if they keep their hearts somewhere else, a chest shot is still good enough. Beside him, Leonardo takes off arms and legs and heads, and every cut is made easier because they have only thick cartilage, not bone.

Hours of combat make them both tired, and the aliens make up for strength in speed. If they have no bones to weigh them down, they also move like sharks in the air, crossing the pavement and using the walls like an extension of the floor, leaping at Bishop from all angles. Gunshots fly over Leonardo's head as he cuts aliens in rapid succession, and a few bullets land near his feet, finishing off those he hadn't cut deeply.

A second later, Bishop grabs Leonardo's arm and drags him backward, throwing a small metal box with glittering lights into the remaining group. Leonardo takes the hint and follows, ducking into the narrow alley just as the explosion sends blood and body parts splashing the street.

Finally, a lull in the fight. Leonardo leans against the brick wall, breathing hard, and looks--really looks--at his comrade in arms. Bishop, readying another compressed tetryl bomb, returns the look. His hands freeze. Both of them stare silently for a moment.

"Useful little thing," Leonardo says, eyeing the bomb.

Bishop nods. "But I can't get close to those ships to use them properly."

Bishop would never ask for help. Leonardo would never offer it. Without another word, they come out of the alley and climb the rubble of one building to the rooftop of another, heading for the lowest flying ships.

**53. Sorrow**

Usagi knows without being told. He's seen it in the way new lines never form on Leonardo's face, the way he grips his weapons and attacks with a youthful vigor that should have begun to fade. As they battle the spirit Jei, at last dispatching what had once been the young monk that now housed the Blade of the Gods, Usagi exhales deeply and returns his swords to their sheathes, feeling every year of his life in his tired hands.

Leonardo never mentions his unfailing youth. Usagi suspects that his lover can't bring himself to speak of his encroaching immortality, of Usagi's eventual death. Soon Usagi can retire to his old village. Kenichi is dead, killed by one of the sicknesses brought by the foreigners, and Mariko is as beautiful now as she was twenty--thirty?--years ago. It will be a pleasant way to spend his final years.

"Will you stay a little while longer?" Usagi asks. "Asama's spring is not far up the road."

He doesn't bring up that Asama's onsen is known to relieve joint and muscle aches, something a younger warrior can shrug off but something that Usagi would rather soothe away.

At the spring, while he listens to Leonardo rinsing away the dust of the road and the blood of the battle, Usagi stares at his reflect in the still waters. A little cloudy, they show him a samurai still unbent with age, but with grayer fur and eyes more tired than impassioned. There was a time he blazed with a desire to see injustice stamped out of the world. Now he has seen enough of the world to realize it will never be stamped out, and that the task is best handed over to the younger generation.

He takes plenty of solace in the young lover in his lap, luxuriating in the strong arms and legs around him, the energy and vitality. He doesn't try to memorize Leonardo's body. It's enough to have him in the here and now, and then let tomorrow bring its own joys.

In the morning, they linger together like children who don't want to go home after a festival. The fireworks are only smoke, the lights are snuffed one by one, and vendors are closing shop. The music winds to an end. The brief happy moment of a few decades draws to a close.

Usagi doesn't ask if they will see each other again. There is the quick embrace, like friends who must part for the night but will see each other again in the morning, they open the door to Leonardo's home, and then Usagi is alone on the road.

He takes a breath, then turns his feet towards his village. Mariko and Jotaro will be waiting.

**54. Burn**

For two days, Michelangelo drifts in and out of consciousness. He dreams of a lake of fire, of the earth drifting too close to the sun. The walls of Donatello's skyscraper melt and the glass warps. He's evaporating in the heat, effervescing like bubbles.

"It's like the ice melts as soon as it touches him," someone says in the distance. Something cool presses against his forehead only to drip into nothingness in a moment.

"If he was human, he wouldn't be alive no more."

"If he was human, he wouldn't be this sick."

"All right, brainiac, you're so smart, what do we do? He can't keep going on like this."

"...put him in the pool."

"What?"

"The pool? Not the bathtub?"

"The pool will be easier to manage. Raph, immerse him slowly and only so that his face doesn't go under. Only halfway."

I don't wanna swim, Michelangelo thinks through the haze of heatwaves. The water's probably boiling.

"Leo, while they're gone we need to change the bedding. It's soaked..."

As he's carried away, the voices fade into the distance. The air turns a little less sweltering as something heavy--blankets?-- are pulled off, and then he's hanging in strong arms like a limp doll. His head lies against someone's chest, and he doesn't try to move. His whole body hurts, slowly charring to the bone, and he doesn't like the jostling as it is.

He's taken to what must be the sauna. He hears water and the echo of their voices all around him. He feels like he's in a cave and they're taking him to the molten core of the earth where the lava pours down the stone walls. Whoever's carrying him takes careful, measured steps into the water, and then something cool touches Michelangelo's limp hand.

His arm sinks completely into the pool along with most of his legs. His shell is immersed, and his head tilts back, resting in the water. His breath escapes in a long sigh.

"I almost expected steam," someone says above him.

The voices grow clearer. The air turns damp and chilly. As Michelangelo blinks, the world comes back into focus and the lava becomes the blazing orange and red tiles of the company logo on their indoor pool. He still doesn't want to move, but he turns his head and spots Raphael looking down on him. The concern and worry in his eyes seem out of place.

"Raph...are you trying to drown me?"

Raphael snorts, but it's a pleased sound and he can't hide the smile.

"Don't tempt me, you little pest. You scared us half to death, mumbling about melting away." Raphael takes another step into the pool, not to lower him deeper, but so that he can hold him closer without raising him out of the water.

"You're not allowed to get sick, got it?" Raphael says. "Go enough to worry about without you adding to the pile."

"Sure, okay..."

Michelangelo begins to drift again, this time into a deep sleep, but before his eyes close and he dreams of melting mountain snow falling into spring pools, he hears Raphael whispering.

"You can't go anywhere...you're not allowed to leave, ever."

**55. Death**

Bishop has seen governments rise and fall. He's seen mutants secretly spring forth from human and alien meddling. He's watched oceans rise and swallow cities. The world changes around him, and he changes with it.

He isn't the same man he used to be a hundred years ago. He isn't sure when that Bishop died. It was a lingering death, slow and painful and fought every step. Some days he feels like a walking corpse that doesn't know enough to lie down. And some days he feels alive, terribly, horribly alive, and no idea what to do with himself.

Aliens have arrived, attacked, been repulsed and disappeared again. Disappeared for decades, and without the threat of spaceships over Manhattan, Bishop turns his attention to mutants.

There are more of them, he doesn't know from where. Some of them are his own fault, like the oversized insects in the abandoned parts of the city. Others -- rats that have learned pack behavior, snakes that have learned to slither while they've reared up, crows whose wings have developed fingers --  
are evolving, pushed along by forgotten alien material and human chemicals and genetic tampering.

And then there are the humanoids.

Intelligent, organized into families across the world, they crop up like lost tribes and wander into the media spotlight. A handful of fox people, real mermaids, and a team of squirrels working for Mossad are just a handful of known mutants. Every country has their own that they treat like mascots. New York is no different.

Except these mascots he's known for decades.

Treating them like people still feels strange. He's worked with them for years now, accepted their help with his own genetic experiments and occasionally teaming his own Gene Tech Corps with Hamato Heavy Industries. Their relationship now is strained by their history. All the cooperation can't erase their memories of being strapped to a vivisection table, or having his plans to save the world thwarted by alien cats' paws.

But the needs of the world often demanded he climb in with strange bedfellows. If he wanted to craft new armor for his soldiers, then he first had to understand the alien exoskeleton he would base the armor on, and to do that, Donatello's facilities for handling megafauna were the best. A corporation created by ninja was also the most secure in the world. He never had to worry about the world discovering what he was doing. Even the distractions of the rising seas, the strange evolution of creatures in the water and the appearance of mutants couldn't always keep humanity from being curious about what he was doing if it ever came to light.

As much as he respected Donatello's security, however, he had to be sure his work was kept private, and as such he needed to keep an ear to Hamato Heavy Industries. Someone who was honest, who had Donatello's absolute trust, even if that person was loyal to Donatello and would never betray that trust. Bishop didn't need a corporate spy, just his own reassurance that his trust in Donatello was warranted.

That was his only reason for lapsing with the mutant. Anyone could see Leonardo's longing, his addiction to company and touch and sensation. The mutant wasn't adjusting to immortality well. A quick indulgence in a back office, in a private lab, and Bishop had access to some of the inner workings of Hamato Heavy Industries, especially whatever concerned his own work. Leonardo never revealed what he wasn't supposed to--he was too loyal for that--but it gave Bishop everything he needed.

That's what he told himself. He certainly didn't need a relationship, especially not with a mutant.

Which made his eagerness for meeting Donatello over lunch to discuss business all the harder to explain.


	12. Chapter 12

**56. Taste**

At the end of a grueling morning practice, Leonardo sits back against Raphael and watches the sunlight drift through tree branches turning gold and red. Raphael takes Leonardo's hand and gently massages out aches and cramps, and as he works, he scoots his legs a little wider so that Leonardo sits firmly between them, nestled safely.

Leonardo still doesn't talk. The silence is annoying, but Raphael understands his reasoning even if he doesn't agree with it. Why go silent when Leonardo could just give up trying to order them around? It isn't like he has two settings, loud and mute. But Raphael gets that the pressure of leading and their resistance, the loss of Splinter and their looming immortality--all of that piled up to crush him.

Raphael is determined to build him back up. He just doesn't know how, yet.

Stepping across crunching leaves, Donatello and Michelangelo make a beeline to them, and Michelangelo has a huge grin on his face. Raphael steels himself for whatever his little brother has in mind, and Leonardo fidgets in his arms. Raphael can sympathize. Woe to anyone who catches Michelangelo's attentions while he's in that mood.

"Here you are!"

Michelangelo drops down on Leonardo, straddling both his and Raphael's legs. It effectively traps both of them, and Donatello positions himself next to them, putting his hand on Leonardo's face. It works to keep him facing Michelangelo.

"I had a great idea," Michelangelo starts. "You know, to get you talking again."

Leonardo eyes him nervously. Pranks? Daily motivational seminars? Burned dinners every day? Michelangelo's done all of that before. None of that worked but it didn't make it any less unpleasant.

"The way it works is this," Michelangelo continues. "Every time you say a word, you get a kiss. A good one, too."

Raphael snorts. As if that'll work. He doesn't have to see his brother's face to know Leonardo's raised an eyeridge. For someone who doesn't talk, Leonardo's raised body language to an artform.

"You may scoff," Michelangelo sniffs as if offended. "But you're turning into a real nympho lately and I figure we can use that against you."

That makes Raphael squash his laugh. He can feel Leonardo's glare even when he's behind him. Comes from years of damn lectures.

"It won't work," Raphael argues. "All he has to do is jump one of us. Can't help kissing him then."

"I know it'll take absolute discipline on our part," Michelangelo says. "It won't be easy. But we absolutely can't kiss him or screw him or do anything else fun unless he says something. Nothing fun unless he talks."

Now Raphael feels Leonardo go still. In a way, he knows Michelangelo is absolutely right. Without his voice, Leonardo has turned into a sensual creature, more eager to touch and explore and let them do what they want. As much as Raphael misses hearing his voice, Leonardo's mental issues have meant some wonderful trade-offs in bed--or any flat surface or not-so-flat surface. Leonardo craves that affection and if they make that into a carrot or stick...

"Nothing?" Leonardo whispers, and he manages to pack a novel's worth of horror into that one word.

Michelangelo smiles in surprise, then puts his hands on Leonardo's face and leans forward, lounging through a long kiss that slowly draws back from. Leonardo tries to move after him, but Michelangelo pushes him back.

"One word, one kiss," Michelangelo says again. "And I suggest you do it now while it's just one word. Next week it goes up to two."

"And if you say more than one word," Donatello says, clearly a co-conspirator, "you get other rewards. Two words, two kisses. When you hit ten total, then and only then do we get to make out and have sex. Got it?"

"...kidding," Leonardo whispers. There's a hint of a 'you' before it, but Michelangelo shakes his head.

"You gotta say both words completely, or else it doesn't count."

And he rewards Leonardo for the word with another kiss.

"Dibs next time," Donatello grumbles.

"Sounds like a good punishment," Raphael says. "Can't imagine how long he can go without. Heck, in a couple days he might start reading books out loud just to spite us."

"I'm okay with that," Michelangelo says. "Anything's better than the silent treatment. Come on, let's go back. I wanna ask him a ton of questions."

Michelangelo climbs up and off, ignoring Leonardo's sullen look. Since Leonardo isn't moving, Raphael pushes Leonardo to his feet and walks beside him, snickering at his brother's attitude. It earns him one of what he calls a fearless leader glare, but without the scolding to back it up, there's no sting. He bends to whisper in his brother's ear.

"You're cute when you're pissed."

Leonardo glances at him but doesn't answer, even though Raphael can tell he's itching to tell him to shut up. Raphael's grin spreads. No wonder Mikey was so smug. Leonardo was in control of this before, but now that the roles are reversed, the silent treatment won't last more than a week.

He laughs, heavily drapes his arm around Leonardo's shoulders, and walks back to the house with a much lighter heart.

**57. Blood**

Not in their room. Not in their garage. Not in any of the labs or meeting rooms. Michelangelo checked his studio on the off chance Donatello had decided to view his paintings and sketches again. He checked the day planner on Donatello's desk again, wondering if he'd missed a note, but again, nothing.

Confused, Michelangelo walked back into their room and flopped on the nest of blankets in the middle. Ever since Leonardo could move freely again--well, as freely as that collar would let him--the room felt felt empty and cold. Not that he missed his older brother being little more than a harem slave, but he hated being the only one inside.

The windows were tinted to filter the sun, leaving the room the soft color of smoke. He stared at the ceiling. The white tile would look better if he covered it in a dark blue starry sky, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He remembered the mural he'd left on his room back in the old underground lair. Leonardo had taken a few pictures when he went back, but Michelangelo knew it was flooded now, crumbling apart and fading. Maybe in a thousand years, archaeologists would dive under New York--maybe New York would be dry again--and they might find his paintings and guess at the ancient artist who'd created them.

And then Michelangelo could phone them and tell them exactly why the murals were there.

Dammit...his stomach clenched every time he had a thought like that.

He got up and headed for the bathroom. A hot bath might help him feel better, especially if someone joined him later. But as he neared the door, he heard water drumming on the tile. Someone had beat him to it.

"Don? You in here?"

When he pushed the door open, he froze. Donatello was there, but he was curled up in the corner of the oversized tub. Decorated with a sandy mosaic, the tub could easily fit all four of them. By himself, Donatello looked small and alone. The shower head was aimed at his shoulder, sending streams of water along his body and down the drain.

Michelangelo put his hand in the water to make sure it was warm. Although they had limitless hot water, sometimes the heaters broke. Reassured that Donatello wasn't freezing himself to death, Michelangelo carefully stepped into the tub and lay down next to his brother. A little blood colored the water and trickled away, and Michelangelo traced it back to a small cut on Donatello's hand. A papercut, maybe, or a slice from working on the inside of a computer.

He still does that, Michelangelo thought, little repairs here and there, for old time's sake.

"Mmf...Mikey?" Donatello mumbles and blinks, slowly waking up.

"Yeah, just me," Michelangelo answers. "How long you been here?"

"No clue," Donatello says. He turns on his side and curls against him. "Since three, I think."

"Lucky you didn't drown," Michelangelo tries to say sternly, but he can't make himself sound mad. "Why're you in here? If you were tired, you could've just gone to sleep."

"I did," Donatello yawns.

"In bed," Michelangelo says with a roll of his eyes. "Are you okay?"

"It all just caught up with me," Donatello says, sighing and glancing at him briefly. "All the projects, late nights, that whole thing with Leo... Lunch with Bishop just put the cherry on top."

Michelangelo hugs him in response. He suspects that lunch with Bishop isn't just lunch, the same way Leo didn't just travel with Usagi, but he doesn't say anything. Living for thousands of years means that some allowances can be made for sleeping around. He never begrudged Raphael for Casey, and none of them grew angry over his brief fling with Karai.

He doesn't think they know about him and Usagi, and he won't ever mention it to Leo.

"Well, a hot bath sounds pretty good to me," Michelangelo says, changing the subject.

He turns the shower off and stops the drain, then turns on the bath water, setting it high enough to steam the mirror and the walls. The water creeps over their feet and legs, then up their chests. As it reaches Donatello's neck where he's resting against Michelangelo's plastron, the door opens again.

"Tol'ja they had to be in here," Raphael says, his arm around Leonardo's shoulders. "Mikey's never fifty feet from the bed."

Michelangelo sticks his tongue out but doesn't argue.

"Mind company?" Leonardo asks.

"Come on in," Michelangelo says and motions to the spot beside him. "Plenty of room."

Raphael takes a minute at the sink to wash motor oil and grease from his arms all the way to his elbows. As Leonardo eases into the water with a soft hiss, he suddenly pauses and puts his hand to the collar.

"Can...can it take the water?" he wonders, not sure if Donatello is still awake.

Donatello cracks one eye at him, stares for a moment, then nods once. "It's water proof. Get in."

Relieved at Donatello's growing forgiveness, Leonardo slips in and sits against Michelangelo's other side. When Raphael climbs in after him, the water sloshes over the edge and swamps the floor. With a snort, Raphael leans forward and turns off the water.

"We need a rubber ducky," Michelangelo says, sharing a kiss with Leonardo. "Or a toy boat."

"Or a pillow," Raphael says. He reaches over both of them to splash Donatello, smirking when he twitches and grumbles.

"Mm...I missed this." Leonardo lays his head on the cool tiles and watches Raphael add the bath salts and minerals that take away soreness borne of too much practice, knuckles busted on engines and gears, hours of painting and the pressure of an entire company and family. "We really should visit an onsen some day. You'd love it."

"Maybe a vacation in Japan?" Michelangelo asks. "I'd love to see Disneyworld Tokyo. And Kyoto. And that festival of robots thing."

"Hm..." Donatello muses. They all know they're asking his permission without thinking they'll get it. Even if he could let them leave the safety of his tower, there's the collar to think of. Leonardo can't go beyond a handful of floors, let alone the tower.

"We could take the liner," Donatello says slowly. No one else speaks, afraid he might stop.

Take their private liner on a cruise. Key the collar to a remote that he can hold so Leonardo can't go more than a few feet away. Make arrangements for private appointments with the onsen and Kyoto temples, maybe even Disneyworld, to better safeguard them against assassination attempts.

He glances at them, reads the hope and worry on their faces. They haven't been out of the city in decades and they've been in this tower for years, leaving only for an occasional gallery show or ride on the beach. It's kept them safe for so long. To risk it for a pleasure cruise and vacation seems ridiculous.

But they want it so badly, and they've put up with his paranoia and possessiveness for so long. Except for Leonardo, and he came back on his own.

Donatello turns the problem over in his head until the water cools and they draw another tub's worth of hot water. By then Raphael has moved behind him and Michelangelo has prodded Leonardo into sitting on his lap. The question of visiting Japan, leaving their tower, is forgotten.

Later that night, Donatello thinks on it long after they've fallen asleep around and on top of him. As he strokes Raphael's shoulder, nudging him when he snores, he wrestles with his anxiety and fear--they could be attacked, the ship could sink--the freak accidents that happen outside of the tower under his completee control.

He imagines them running away from him, not knowing if they'll come back, because he couldn't loosen his grip a little.

His decision comes quickly.

**58. Star**

"--and what we can clearly see here--can we freeze the video? Right there you have the perfect shot of the new heroes everyone's talking about. The smoke from the crashed ship is blown clear for a moment and you can see four humanoid turtles.

Amazing, isn't it? A week ago we would never have believed in aliens, and yet it's these unlikely defenders of ours that have us so enthralled.

Okay, so let's look at them. We zoomed into this shot earlier and cleaned it up. They're all different heights--see, the one here is almost a head taller than the one in the center--and their colors differ slightly. This one's more olive, this one's more emerald.

Let the video play again--thanks Jim. It's hard to get a glimpse of them through the smoke, but you can definitely make out how they're working with that unknown man to destroy the largest alien craft. This part is amazing--the one in orange is deflecting those missile projectiles that we're all too familiar with now. Watch--there, he bats one away just before it would've hit the one in red, who's clearly guarding the man and the turtle in purple as they work.

What's startling to me isn't just that they're turtles, though. They're fighting with old weapons--a sword, a staff, a three pronged dagger and those...those...those things that Bruce Lee used in Enter the Dragon, the--nunchucks, yes, thanks Lisa. The device that the man and the purple one are working on is clearly high tech, but otherwise they seem almost medieval.

Here it is--this is why we had such a hard time keeping track of this fight. Wait, here it comes--there, the blue one spots us and throws something, and the camera goes black. This happened the whole time we were trying to film the invasion. Every time we could finally focus on them, he turns around and kills the camera.

What? Yes, Jomo, never the cameraman. He never even scratches the people working the cameras, and it bears mentioning. Hurting them or even killing them, as he's clearly capable of doing, would have probably gotten him the privacy he wanted. As it is, we had to keep switching angles, which we were able to do when the aliens stopped attacking us because they were too busy with these turtles.

Fortunately camera forty-two was already there, just at a different angle. Now the purple one finishes the device, and we see the red one give a boost to the blue one--which makes sense, since there's probably no way the blue one could do the same in return, just look at the size of the red one--and the blue one lands on the ship itself. There's a quick cut--sparks explode out and then the ship's laser defense turns toward him.

Look closely here--can we freeze frame? No? Then rewind it. Rewind it...there! Watch again, he jumps as the lasers cut the ship itself, but you can also see blood spurting from his side. As fast as he is--you have to slow the video to even see him jump--the laser still grazes him. He lands in the red one's arms, and then the orange one takes the device and pitches it straight into the opening the blue one made. Talk about a great throw--this kid would have a serious future in baseball.

And of course, the explosion, the ship crashes and takes out what was left of Macy's, and then they vanish into the smoke.

So what are we to make of these creatures? Do we even call them creatures? We don't know if they're aliens, but after watching that, it seems disrespectful to call them creatures. Turtle people, maybe?

Tonight we put out a call, a welcome if you will. We know you don't mean us any harm, and that you're wary of our cameras and our knowledge of you. But we know you exist, and we know you saved us, and we want to say thank you in any way we can. We want to meet you, to know who you are.

We promise not to bill you for any cameras."

**59. Taboo**

"Have you ever thought about dating a human?"

Michelangelo dreaded that question. In every interview on a dozen different shows and magazines, the reporter's eyes would gleam and a wry smile would twist her mouth, as if she were the only one to ever think of it, and she would ask some variation of the same question. Did he find wild turtles attractive? Humans? The other mutants appearing around the world?

Thank God Donatello was their only physician. He could only imagine the kind of hell they'd have endured with a human doctor. Medical exams would have been leaked and their full body scans and measurements splashed on televisions across the country. He'd already been asked how endowed he was by one shameless reporter who'd been way too interested.

Not that he hadn't slept with a human before. Or another mutant. But except for a few, humans didn't attract him at all, especially if they weren't in top physical form. Karai probably never ate a cookie in her life, and she had moved more like a lizard than a human. When she had touched Michelangelo, her fingers seemed glued together, moving as if she was guiding qi.

Not like the humans he saw now, with their thin, spidery fingers splayed out on a keyboard as the rest of their body bulked up on coffee and vending machine food. They bulged in odd spots, their skin was almost bald save for hair that got everywhere, they broke easily and they only lasted for a few years. Humans were only good for the rare fling.

He was okay with that now. Fur and soft skin didn't compare to the firm, rough textures of his brothers. No other creatures had the taut shell that he could use as a handhold, and no one could stroke his shell at the right angle and pressure except his brothers. The softer plastron could be massaged so that their abdominal muscles relaxed. And the sweet vulnerable sides that they never left unguarded save when they were alone, trusting each other...

"So, are you attracted to humans?"

After four or five interviews, he learned to stand up and leave, ignoring their fake apologies.

**60. Sacred**

With a wineglass in hand, Donatello stood at the edge of the roof and waited.

Technology changed but people never did. People still hated corporations, but brightly colored parties went a long way in PR. Hamato Heavy Industries hosted several charity benefits on its roof throughout the year, and twice a year, the company sponsored two spectacles for the city.

Despite the naysayers in the early years who thought Americans were too stupid or resistant to foreign holidays, Donatello found that the city took to Bon well. The first year that fireworks and singing filled the night, people grew curious as to what the company was celebrating. Since the ocean currents were too choppy and unpredictable to launch paper boats, he'd borrowed the idea of flying paper lanterns into the night sky. The news channels had rerun video of the floating lanterns for days afterward.

After the first celebration, he'd gone on the news to softly answer questions about the festival and explain that they were remembering all the family and friends that had passed away during their long lives. Then the next year, there were curious onlookers in neighboring buildings and scattered people with their own lanterns to fly.

Every year after that, the rooftops were fenced in for safety as thousands of people packed the buildings and the lanterns, warmed by lit flames inside, gently rose up and drifted across the ocean.

But they had to be careful. A bad wind could send the lanterns into New York, so everyone waited for the wind to blow easterly. Donatello leaned on the railing and watched the waves lapping at his tower, satisfied with the way his security lights made the white crests sparkle.

Someone joined him at the edge. Donatello preferred keeping apart from the human guests he'd invited, but the person at his arm wasn't human. Long years together meant he knew who it was without looking.

"Thank you," Leonardo said, idly touching his metal collar. "I was afraid I would miss this."

"I wouldn't take this from you," Donatello said. He wished the festival hadn't been so soon after Leonardo's return, but perhaps Michelangelo was right. Maybe the months inside their safe room had been enough punishment.

"April, Casey, Splinter, Shadow, Klunk," Leonardo whispered like a mantra. "Karai, Saki, Angel, Usagi..."

"I wrote them all down," Donatello assured him. "With pictures and their likes and dislikes. Things they said and did."

Leonardo shook his head. "I hope we never need to look at those."

"Think of them like photo albums," Donatello said. "They just help. They won't take the place of our real memories."

The wind changed and the weather vane pointed to the horizon. With a single cry, everyone lit their flame and waited for the warm air to carry their paper lantern away. A long moment passed in silence and then pleased murmurs followed as each lantern drifted like ghosts to the sea.

TBC...


	13. Chapter 13

**61. Complete**

Donatello looked up from his monitor. His three siblings all lay in a jumble on the bed. Here in the center of his ship, the ocean swells barely disturbed them. Even rogue waves and violent storms posed little danger. His _Magdalena_ was a refurbished battleship, capable of withstanding even typhoons. It was the only ship in the world he trusted to carry all of them safely.

Although _The Magdalena_ was rough and unpolished on the outside, she was comfortable on the inside. She had all the luxuries of home, including the lushly furnished inner sanctum--lair, he reminded himself. They'd again taken to calling a lair wherever they slept. Here they not only had the oversized bed that filled most of the room, space being at a premium even on this behemoth of a ship, but he also had an overstuffed armchair that he could do his work on, running his company remotely.

He was often the last one awake. Exhausted from the day on the deck, sunbathing, exercises, Michelangelo's game of tag and the video game marathon, they'd climbed into bed long after their usual bedtime, excited to finally be outside their tower. Donatello checked the clock. Three twelve a.m., late enough to make them miserable if they didn't sleep in. He still had his sense of discipline to want to wake early--they all did, even Michelangelo--but he reminded himself that this was supposed to be a vacation. He was supposed to relax.

He sighed and put his computer aside, but he didn't go to bed. He didn't want to sleep yet.

He hadn't relaxed in a long time. No, not in a long century or three. Not since he was thrown into another dimension where Saki had taken over the world and slaughtered his family around him. Donatello experienced the crushing despair of their deaths so many nights. Sometimes he went a month or a decade without a nightmare. Sometimes he saw their empty faces every night for years. Their dead eyes had been driving everything he did since then.

Because maybe it wasn't another dimension. Maybe it was the future instead, and how long does Donatello have to live before that future doesn't happen? Before he's sure, absolutely sure, that the hideous future of his brothers dead by his own stupid plan--before he's sure that won't happen?

The other New York hadn't been flooded, but perhaps the ocean had receded by then. Humanity hadn't known about mutant ninja turtles, but maybe they'd simply forgotten about them after a few hundred years.

True, April and Hun and Stockman had still been alive. That was the hardest part to reconcile. They were all so long dead that Donatello couldn't remember their faces outside of a photograph, and even if they could be cloned, they were drifting ashes long scattered after the ocean swallowed their graves. How could that awful future happen when they were gone?

But that didn't matter. There were other things that could happen--a second alien invasion always loomed on the edge of his thoughts. Each of them had nearly died so many times, and even though they won, Donatello felt like they had cheated. He'd come up with the plan to stop the invasion, but Bishop had approved it so it didn't count. He knew it was foolish superstition, but he felt that if it had been his plan alone, they would have all died.

In the moment before Splinter had summoned them home, the moment after April tried to console him for the death of his siblings, Donatello had stood among their bodies and imagined being the only survivor.

Sometimes watching them sleep, the soft rise of their chests as they breathed and the way they turned and mumbled, was the only thing that kept him sane.

While he was watching, Raphael groaned and pushed himself up, yawning as the blankets fell off of him. He breathed deep, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and took one of the blankets, wrapping it around his shoulders as he climbed off the bed.

"Bad dreams?" Donatello asked.

"Mm-hmm." Raphael nodded once and plodded over to him, dropping down in the chair with him. It was a tight fit. The armchair was big but not built for two, and Donatello scooted over a few inches to make room.

"Dreamt we were fighting Shredder," Raphael said, curling up small. "Now. In the tower, I mean. He took us by surprise and--we weren't doing so well."

Donatello held him. It was funny how the biggest brother could fit against him, but Donatello imagined him to be an oversized teddy bear, and Raphael used his plastron for a pillow. Raphael liked to act like the toughest one of the team, but he needed reassurance like the rest of them.

"No one gets into the tower without me knowing," Donatello said. "I knew the moment Leo was on the roof and coming home. Even if someone got by all the defenses, then they'd still have us to deal with. And it's not like we've slacked off training much."

"I think Leo would argue," Raphael said, but he smiled back.

Donatello smiled and held him tight. Raphael was so warm, a little fidgety--_alive_--that he didn't mind how heavy Raphael was even when half on top of him.

"Think you can get back to sleep?" he asked.

"Yeah." Raphael readjusted himself again, repositioning his legs until he was comfortable, and settled with Donatello's arms around him. "If you don't mind sleeping here."

"Not in bed?"

"Too hot with Leo and Mikey on top. This is better." He yanked the corner of the blanket so that it draped over the chair and nearly reached the floor. "Yeah, that's better. You okay? I wanna stay here."

"I'm good." Donatello resigned himself to being stiff in the morning and relaxed, glancing at the bed one more time before quietly ordering the lights to reduce to a tiny glow. "I want you to stay here, too."

**62. Sickness**  
_Michelangelo's calligraphy, painted on Rapahel's back and photographed. Translation of the kanji on the reverse._

eternity eternity eternity eternity eternity eternity  
eternity disease disease disease disease eternity  
eternity disease disease disease disease eternity  
eternity disease _cure cure cure_ disease eternity  
eternity disease _cure_ **you** _cure_ disease eternity  
eternity disease _cure cure cure_ disease eternity  
eternity disease disease disease disease eternity  
eternity disease disease disease disease eternity  
eternity eternity eternity eternity eternity eternity

**63. Wall**

Lunch with Bishop was like climbing a mountain. The sheer cliff face, the biting wind, the sharp and jagged stones made reaching the summit all the more satisfying. Years before, the man had tried to dissect Donatello alive. Now they sat face to face in a small restaurant, comfortably esconced in a dark corner lit only by a candle on the table.

"I never saw this place before," Bishop said, glancing around the dim space. "Has it always been here?"

"It moved last year," Donatello said. "The open levels of the tower've become too public. We wanted something more exclusive."

Like many things in Hamato Heavy Industries Tower, it was a blend of east and west. Chinese cuisine met with old world European atmosphere, and the menu was written only in Han characters. When Donatello ordered in Cantonese, Bishop followed suit, and the conversation naturally followed in that language.

"I'm surprised," Bishop said, handing his menu to the waitress. "I wouldn't have guessed you would sanction shark fin soup."

"Not a hundred years ago," Donatello said. "Have I shown you the seeding project we have in the aquarium floors?"

"Not as I recall."

"Genetically diversified repopulation efforts--a glorified way of saying we're breeding sharks at an exponential rate," Donatello said. "I'll show you the tanks later, but sometimes the results are too mutated to release. They end up on the menu instead."

"Just the little sharks, yes?" Bishop asked. "I've seen enough of your megafauna work to be suspicious."

"Nothing big," Donatello assured him. "Michelangelo keeps pushing me to make a sea serpent, but there's nothing bigger slated for release than the Tasmanian tiger right now."

"That reminds me, how's work on the Caspians and Siberians?"

"Pretty good," Donatello said. "The tigers are my pet project, so I've been able to devote a lot of time to them."

Bishop nodded once. To them, "a lot of time" meant more than the few months it might to a human. Donatello's pet project had taken almost twenty years.

"Speaking of Michelangelo..." Bishop started, his voice drifting as the waitress brought their white wine. "How's the family?"

Donatello took a sip, waiting for the girl to leave before answering.

"They're fine. They usually sleep in the day after Obon."

"I'm surprised you let them out for that," Bishop said. "You aren't afraid that a prince won't come rescue them from their tower?"

"They don't have hair to let down," Donatello said. "And even if they did, I'm very careful. Right now you're the only prince I have to worry about."

Bishop waved one hand idly, dismissing his comment.

"They don't want to escape their tower. But you might want to give your older brother a little more attention." Bishop smiled. "The way he acts, I'd almost think you never touch him."

"I know he has his trysts," Donatello said. "We all do. If we're going to live for thousands of years, we make some allowances here and there. As long as he always comes back to the tower."

"To be locked up forever?" Bishop asked. "Do you ever let them out of this tower?"

Donatello didn't answer. Their lunch arrived, shark fin soup and braised abalone, and they ate in silence. The meals would cost several thousand dollars apiece, but for now, Donatello didn't taste his food.

"Have you ever told them?" Bishop prodded. "The real reason you keep them here?"

Donatello paused. "I never should have told you."

"It was good you did," Bishop said. "You've visibly lost stress since you told me. You don't seem like you're certifiably insane now."

"They wouldn't understand," Donatello said softly. "They'd think it couldn't happen anymore, that we stopped the future. They'd try to make me feel better."

"That's a bad thing?"

"They were dead," Donatello said. "It doens't matter that I got them back. They were dead. They were right there in front of me and they were dead."

"It never happened," Bishop said.

"It happened to me."

Bishop sighed. It was a conversation they'd been having ever since Donatello confided in him after a heated fight with Raphael. Decades had passed since, and neither of them had gained any ground.

"Why do you care anyway?" Donatello demanded. "Aren't you happy I've locked us all up?"

Bishop half-smiled. "If I have to spend eternity with you around, I'd rather you not end up basketcases."

While Donatello glared, Bishop savored another taste of his abalone. Although he grew weary with some aspects of life, fine cuisine made up for much of the tedium of life. Mixing business with spice like this also made work more pleasant.

Lunch with Donatello, Bishop had discovered, was like a dish of abalone. The strong shell protecting a soft inside, and the satisfaction of swallowing the poor creature whole. Years before, he had tried to explore Donatello's body. Now he sat face to face with him in a small restaurant, contemplating how he would explore him that evening, entirely with Donatello's fragile consent.

**64. Sarcasm**

_Hamato Heavy Industries  
CEO Subject Files  
Classification Level 4. Not to be copied or removed from my desk._

**Subject:** #001  
**AKA:** Donatello Hamato  
**Species:** Mutant Turtle (red eared slider)  
**Gender:** Male  
**Height:** 5'7''  
**Weight:** 216 lbs.  
**Likes:** Global Internetwork Communications Web, "nice, neat fits", astronomy  
**Dislikes:** "messy packages", interruptions, "not knowing"  
**Known Sexual Encounters:** #002, #003, #004, April O'Neil, Bishop  
**Comments:** CEO of Hamato Heavy Industries, discoverer of multispecies genetic splicing technique, engaged in global species reseeding efforts.  
**Recommendations:** Work provides an adequate outlet. Therapy unnecessary at this time. Continued conversations with Bishop, other subjects encouraged.

**Subject:** #002  
**AKA:** Michelangelo Hamato  
**Species:** (see #001)  
**Gender:** Male  
**Height:** 6'3  
**Weight:** 283 lbs.  
**Likes:** painting, "making friends", video games  
**Dislikes:** "being alone", "messing up a painting", the ocean  
**Known Sexual Encounters:** #001, #003, #004, Karai Saki, Usagi Miyamoto  
**Comments:** Globally recognized artist and poet, the public face of Hamato Heavy Industries, the glue of the Hamato family.  
**Recommendations:** Artistic activities, when combined with family engagement, provide an adequate outlet. Continuation of all activities recommended.

**Subject:** #003  
**AKA:** Leonardo Hamato  
**Species:** (see #001)  
**Gender:** Male  
**Height:** 5'3''  
**Weight:** 210 lbs.  
**Likes:** training, sense of security, companionship  
**Dislikes:** anxiety, being pent in, missing new manga updates  
**Known Sexual Encounters:** #001, #002, #004, Karai Saki, Usagi Miyamoto, Bishop  
**Comments:** Security Head of Hamato Heavy Industries, enjoys reading and physical/mental training in Eastern philosophies and techniques. Will select one brother to follow throughout each day. Feelings of guilt and paranoia finally decreasing.  
**Recommendations:** Increasing sexual encounters with Bishop are providing positive results in all regards. Increased family engagement necessary. Plan for future family outings in the form of picnics, vacations, etc.

**Subject:** #004  
**AKA:** Raphael Hamato  
**Species:** (see #001)  
**Gender:** Male  
**Height:** 6'7''  
**Weight:** 305 lbs.  
**Likes:** weight lifting, motorcycle building/racing, security detail  
**Dislikes:** failure, "being cramped up like one of your experiments", crashing  
**Known Sexual Encounters:** #001, #002, #003, Casey Jones, Bishop  
**Comments:** Will spend days riding a motorcycle if allowed. Mood swings are no longer violent or extreme, but will become moody if left idle. Vital in helping secure megafauna experiments.  
**Recommendations:** Busy schedules to be maintained and most free time to be spent with family. Some "accidental" failures of megafauna security may be allowed if subject requires physical outlet of aggression/frustration.

**65. Poison**

Raphael sits on his hammock and stares at the folded note on his pillow. A week ago, he gave his big brother a poem. A lousy bunch of words, cobbled together from Michelangelo's scribbling what Raphael had been rambling, but if his artistic little brother called it a poem, then he'd take his word for it.

He was so jealous of what they had. Poetry traded back and forth, perfectly expressing what they felt in beautiful phrases and pretty metaphors. It all sounded so smart, the little bits he snuck a peek at. He didn't understand a lot of what he saw.

So he stared at the note as if it was a cup of battery acid. Leonardo's handwriting was unmistakable. His big brother had responded.

Did it take them that long to come up with a few words? Raphael hoped so. He didn't feel so stupid if they couldn't come up with those poems so fast. And what would Leonardo say? Would he understand the lines and weird words? Did Leo write in kanji like Mikey did sometimes? He knew they loved making puns with those things. Raphael didn't think he remembered many characters.

Finally he snarled at himself and grabbed the note, careful not to crumple it. He'd seen them tie sprigs of flowers to the bits of paper. He hoped Leonardo hadn't--he wouldn't know what each flower meant--but he didn't want to crush one anyway.

No flowers--just a short response in Leonardo's damn meticulous handwriting.

_My brother joins the dance.  
His steps are slow, halting, unsure.  
Astonished, I try to keep up._

Raphael blinks.

Sarcasm? Try to keep up--is Leo making fun of him for trying to be a poet? Or is he being honest and saying Raphael's already too fast?

God_damn_, this poetry shit is hard.


	14. Chapter 14

**66. Birthday**

Only Hamato Heavy Industries employees could visit this floor, and among them, only the doctors and some of the mutants could afford the meals served in The Teapot Stetson. A blend of east and west, the menu served exotic delicacies and expensive luxury cuisine often considered taboo. A neurobiochemist sat across from a humanoid wombat, both of them wearing white lab coats although the wombat had goggles. Both of them sampled Japanese spider crab legs, cloned back from extinction and reared in-house, using either crab pliers or claws to peel off the shell.

"It's him," Leonardo insisted. "Reincarnated."

"You're just being paranoid," Donatello said, glancing at Leonardo over his tea cup. "It's not Saki."

Leonardo didn't answer, watching the waiter move between the tables. He'd been focused on the eyes in that metal mask for years--or was it months?--of his early life. He sometimes still had nightmares about his duel with the man, and of all the humans he had ever known, Saki was the most distinct in his memory.

"He doesn't even look like Saki," Donatello said. "He's too young."

"But he moves like him," Leonardo whispered.

The waiter twisted at the waist to pass two tables set close together. Even if Donatello was right, the waiter still moved like a ninja. A platter of steaming soups and a whole roast torotix (what Donatello swore was a prehistoric flamingo) was heavy and unwieldy, no easy feat to maneuver around a small restaurant filled with chairs and tables, and yet he carried the platter easily, spinning and pivoting as if in a forest dodging enemy shuriken.

"Swiftlet nest," the waiter murmured as he set the bowl in front of Leonardo, then a shallow dish in front of Donatello. "Drunken shrimp."

"I don't know why you like that," Donatello said as he caught one of the twitching shrimp in his chopsticks. "The nest doesn't even taste like anything. It's the other ingredients that give the soup its flavor."

"And you're eating live bugs," Leonardo said, refusing to look at the shrimp marinated in liquor. "How'd they get the shell off without killing them?"

"Genetic screw up," Donatello admitted, biting off the body. "We need a food supply for the lion fish, but when we made the first batch, the gene for the shell wasn't active. But at least they're not going to waste."

Leonardo didn't watch him swallow the next one. He'd tried live octopus before and didn't like to remember how it felt wriggling down his throat. The shrimp were only insects, but he didn't like the idea of them scrabbling desperately on the way down.

Instead he focused on the waiter, noting the name tag with further dismay. As Oruku Sakai refilled his water and Donatello's Guan Yin tea, Leonardo cautiously mentioned how impressed he was that he could slip between the close tables.

"It's gotten harder since we got more popular," the young man laughed. "My manager tells me I must've been a ninja in a past life."

As he walked away, Sakai didn't notice Leonardo tense up, but Donatello did and calmly touched the remote on his side, sending the tiniest electric jolt through Leonardo's collar. No more than a static pop, it broke his concentration and made him look up in surprise.

"No killing of staff," Donatello said softly. "I don't think even I could get away with that."

"Could just put him on the menu," Leonardo sulked, giving the soup a wary look as if it might be poisoned.

**67. Question**

_What is Michelangelo?_  
swirling greens and ochres in broad strokes  
captured on canvas and frozen in place  
a portrait fighting to break its frame  
unafraid of spilling the paint

_What is Leonardo?_  
the whisper on the security camera  
the blood on the edge of a sword  
a blank line of poetry waiting for a poet  
ink still discovering its form

_What is Raphael?_  
a bundle of passionate turmoil  
learning the discipline of form and line  
in love with the sound of smashing glass  
learning to keep from shattering

_What is Donatello?_  
the staff swinging leaden through the air  
slow to react, a battering ram  
fighting to come back around for the next pass  
following through on obsolete commands

**68. Quit**

Michelangelo quit smoking when he was ten. The sewers covered the buring stench so that no one else ever knew that he picked up the smoldering cigarrettes from the gutters. The chemical stimulant rush had been nice, but he didn't understand why humans liked the choking tar and yellow stains. So he stopped picking up the cigarettes and tattled on Raphael when he started.

Michelangelo quit drinking around one hundred and forty. For a long time, curling up with a bottle had numbed the horror of endless years stretching out in front of him. As he'd calmed down, he'd experimented with stronger and stronger alcohol, going so far as adding hallucinagens like wormwood and opiates to his drinks. The green fairy had helped so many writers in the past, and he wanted just a little of her inspiration for his own work. Later on, he'd found that his own imagination put those fever dreams to shame, and he'd poured his last bottle out over the ocean.

Michelangelo has been addicted to the darkness and obscurity for as long as he can remember. His father started him on the heady rush of killing from shadowy niches and he's been a junkie on the thrill and power that comes from getting away with murder. Sure, it's all self-defense and he's never killed anyone who didn't have it coming, but the darkness is cold and lonely. The rare luxury of the sunlight calls to him from the other side of the sunset.

He wants to feel the sunny breeze on his face, not just the furtive night wind stealing cold across him. He wants to take the invitation of the man on tv, the news anchor asking them to come out of hiding and say hello. The other news anchors have made assurances of keeping mad scientists away, but they sound vaguely afraid and eager only for the scoop. The first man sounded excited and even joked about not billing them for the cameras they destroyed. The first man sounded like a real person. The first man sounded like a sincere promise.

Sneaking out of the lair is easy with Raphael glued to Leonardo's side, tending the alien laser burns, and Donatello calculating something about rising ocean levels. Michelangalo steals away, ignoring all their warnings about humans and how the darkness is the only safe place for them. They're all still addicted to shadows.

At the age of two hundred and twelve, Michelangelo sneaks into the news building and quits the darkness cold turkey.

**69. Sound**  
Saki sounded like steel scraping down chalk, like steel slicing into flesh and chopping vertebrae.

Michelangelo sounds like gentle, teasing laughter and playful quips, wet splats of tossed paint pots.

Casey sounded like mad laughter, the crack of Louisville Sluggers and motorcycle engines.

Raphael sounds like beer bottles clinking in strong camaraderie, like sweat dripping onto the mat.

Karai sounded like rustled cloth and soft gasps, choked sobs and fiery shrieks for his death.

Donatello sounds like keystrokes and sipping coffee, quiet murmurs in the night as he watches by the light of the computer.

Splinter sounded like struck matches, candles dripping wax, and tea kettles boiling on the stove top.

Bishop sounds like annoyed sighs and expensive shoes on tile floors, straightening his tie with smug laughter.

Usagi sounded like sake poured into cups, dragonflies zipping through the sky and summer rain.

Leonardo sounds like swords sharpening, meditation's even breath and pages turned in the dark.

April sounded like a cheerful chat over tea and the scratch of a pen on an old journal's yellowed pages.

Outside, the world is a waterglobe, silent but for the susurration of the ocean waves and the tower quietly groaning under the strain of storms and heavy currents. Outside, the world is asleep. Inside, the living keep company with ghosts.

**70. Blur**

Raphael tells himself that it's not hypocrisy to feel jealous of Usagi. That damn rabbit lured Leonardo away for years, and then Michelangelo came home with a portrait and singing the samurai's praises. Not that Mikey thought he was obvious about it, but Raphael saw the difference plain as day. Being a turtle means they don't have tell-tale "just got fucked" hair, but the bright eyes, the relaxed posture, the easy smile, even for Mikey, are practically neon signs screaming that Usagi had been there.

Raphael reins in his jealousy. His ugly emotions had pushed Leonardo to Usagi, where he knew his brother's self-esteem had suffered. Leonardo held the samurai's opinion in too high regard, and the samurai held ninja in too low. As far as Raphael was concerned, Usagi wasn't worthy to clean his brothers' weapons, let alone touch them.

But his brothers had enjoyed the rabbit's attentions on some level, and that he couldn't be angry about. Not when he had enjoyed Casey's.

His memories of Casey are a blur. Not because he doesn't remember him, but because Casey never stopped moving. When they sat on a rooftop watching the heat rise off the city, Casey was laughing or drinking or wildly throwing his arms around, describing his last fight. Or he was a whirl of black hair behind the white mask, raw power and speed, slamming bats and hockey sticks into the scum of the city. Raphael remembers how he moved while he was spouting one-liners and lame jokes. The details weren't important. He doesn't remember Casey's eyes or his frame as he stood still. The Casey in the photographs wasn't the Casey in his head. The man he remembers was all muscle and sinews, sweat and leather, beer and the whistling wood.

He doesn't know where Casey's buried. He couldn't have openly attended the funeral, but he hadn't tried to find out where the grave was. And besides, the ocean had swallowed the city anyway. Wherever Casey was, he wasn't in the ground, not moving and not making a racket. Wherever Casey was, Raphael was sure there was a rowdy party and April reluctantly in tow.

Dangling the empty bottle from his fingers for a moment, Raphael let it fall down the side of the tower, hitting the water hundreds of stories below. It was the first of a dozen at his side, enough beer for two. On nights he thought about Casey, remembering the blur of his clumsy human hands, far too wide mouth, and his brute roughness shoving him against brick and pavement, Raphael wanted the rest of the city to be a blur, too.


	15. Chapter 15

**Whisper**

It starts with a whisper as they're sunbathing beneath the gun turrets of the Magdalena, anchored just off the coast of Hawaii. The clouds add the frosting to a perfect view of the big island as the sun slowly sinks, and the soft breeze brings along a hint of pineapple from the fruit market along the beach. One, two birds idly circle off the palm trees into the sky. Then a handful more birds.

Then the entire island erupts as every bird takes wing and abandons the island in a rush of feathers and panicked cries. It's disconcerting to see brightly colored plumage mingling together and casting a squawking shadow on the land. The people below visibly duck and the fishermen around them point in surprise.

"...the hell?" Raphael breathes, sitting up and watching as the birds wheel higher into the air, circling like vultures in a great black cloud.

"Something's bugging 'em out bad," Michelangelo says.

He goes to the railing for a better look and spots a shadow over the side of the boat. At first he thinks it was a whale moving fast, but when he looks closer, he sees that it isn't one shadow but hundreds. Sea creatures, from small things he can barely spot to large sharks, are passing under the ship, heading out to deeper water.

"The fish, too," he adds. "Don, what-"

He turns to ask, and instead finds his brother at his laptop quickly punching keys, intently focused on the screen. There's no point in asking him anything when he's that intent.

"Hey," Leonardo says, joining him at the railing. "Do you hear that?"

His big brother's hearing as always been the most keen, but Michelangelo hears it almost immediately. It's a whisper growing louder at the horizon. They both stare into the distance, but it's impossible to see anything. Then Raphael frowns.

"The sun's going down real fast."

Michelangelo's breath is quick. "No...the water. It's reaching up to it."

It is a tsunami that dwarfs their ship and the island beside it. The same time that Michelangelo realizes, Donatello slams his laptop shut and jumps up, grabbing Raphael's wrist.

"Inside, all of you," he orders them, yelling as if the whisper was a roar. "Now!"

They obey the fear in his voice, following him across the deck that now feels far too long. By the time they reach the main hatch, the whisper has grown too loud to talk over. Raphael is the last one in and slams the door shut, spinning the hatch lock to tighten it.

The rumbling is even louder underwater, punctuated by the muted songs of whales diving down. Donatello pauses near one of the computer screens built into the ship's wall, a design he learned from Star Trek and for which he's earned endless teasing from his siblings. He brings up a display of the ship's main functions and tells it to perform command routine gamma.

The moment he hits 'enter', the ship's hatches all shut automatically and the sea anchor is cut free. The engines fire and the Magdalena tips forward, engines plowing her deeper. There's no time to find a place to strap in. Raphael grabs the side of an access ladder welded to the wall and holds one arm out, wordlessly motioning them to step close. First Michelangelo, then Donatello when Leonardo shoves him ahead. Raphael grabs his big brother's hand as Leonardo braces against a thick pipe along the wall.

"What was it?" Michelangelo asks over the roar. "What'd you see? Earthquake?"

Donatello, pressed against his side, shakes his head and holds him tighter. "Didn't look for that."

"Then what?"

Donatello closed his eyes. He didn't know how long they had. Seconds, probably.

"The north pole's moved."

Wrapping Donatello up in one arm, Michelangelo holds onto the other side of the ladder and braces.

When the shockwave hits, he feels like he's being crushed by sheer pressure pushing him against the wall. The ocean screams around them, the ship groans madly as it strains against its seams. The lights flicker and go out, and then the oean is a monster raging with its jaws right against his head-

-and then silence. The pressure eases, and soft red emergency lights glow at the corners of the small corridor. The engines still. Raphael and Leonardo don't let go, relaxing only a little, and Donatello listens for any sound. After the roar, the lack of noise is almost worse.

"We're under it," he whispers. "The swell is over us."

"What's with the lights?" Raphael breathes.

"The ship's conserving energy," Donatello says. "All the power's in keeping the ship together."

They pause. The metal shell around them feels fragile, and the emptiness of the sea looms around them at the edges of the dim red glow. None of them speak, waiting for the ship to begin moving again.

**Innocence**

Michelangelo is the secret poison of the family. Karai knows venom well enough to recognize it. There is a stoic honor about Leonardo that leaves their occasional trysts safely predictable-both of them know that neither can leave their clan. Leonardo may make token comments to her to leave Saki's service, and she mocks their small attempts at stopping her father, but devotion to one's lord is paramount. Their love making is done the same way they live-hurried, in darkness and in secret.

Michelangelo, however, embodies light and noise. How he's survived their lifestyle would be a mystery to her if she hadn't seen the rare times when he's been forced to seriously fight to his true ability. He hides his talent behind a veneer of clownish buffoonery that disarms so many of his opponents. She herself has fallen victim to it too often, each time telling herself not to grow overcompetent, but when he's acting out an Abbott and Costello routine during a fight, it's hard not to be infuriated beyond control.

She isn't surprised that he talked her into bed, but afterwards, she is a little annoyed. He isn't like her or Leonardo. He doesn't try to sway her away from Saki. He just asks questions.

"So is he really your dad, or did he adopt you like Splinter did us? How'd you end up in New York? Did you like Japan better?"

Leonardo never asks stupid questions. He, at least, knows there is no escape from this clan warfare. They sleep together knowing that the next day they might kill each other. Michelangelo asks questions that shouldn't be asked, let alone thought about, because she has no answers for them.

"Do you like your dad? Do you ever wish you weren't a ninja?"

She stands and rearranges her clothing, getting herself back in order and glancing around out of habit. No one comes by an empty dock in the middle of the night, especially not so close to winter. Her men are safely elsewhere, guarding their interests across the city. There is an assassination of a particular judge that she wanted no part of tonight. Assassinations are messy when whole families must die in the fire they set to curry fear among the rest of the legal system. It leaves a bad taste in her mouth, and it's why she did not seek out Leonardo for company tonight.

"If you survive the next few years, what do you wanna do with your life?"

Will he never stop with his questions? She turns away from the ocean and the turtle lying comfortably on the rough wood of the dock. She could kill him now, but there's a temporary truce until she leaves. And if she attacked him now, she wasn't sure she would succeed regardless. Michelangelo enjoys performing everything his brothers do backwards and occasionally on his head. Those lazily lidded eyes are the same poison as his laughing jibes, intended to lull her into overconfidence. She starts to leave.

"Does Shredder ever tell you what a good job you're doing?"

Wounded fury that cut too close. How dare he? She snarls but holds her hand. It would be dishonorable to strike him down, more dishonorable than she wants to be now. More importantly, she does not want his three brothers fueled with righteous fury with time to plan revenge. Better to strike them all down in battle.

Besides, she can cut to the bone, too.

"Does your father ever tell you what a disappointment you are, always lazing behind your brothers?"

He masks the stricken look in his eyes quickly, but her life depends on reading emotions in her enemies. Her words have hit their mark. She and Leonardo are kindred spirits, born to this life, but the others do not take to the shadows like their life's blood. Michelangelo's sheer skill makes up for the poor fit ninjitsu makes for him. In a fight, he drags his feet like a sullen child.

"Geez, lady," Michelangelo mutters, "you this cheerful with Leo, too?"

She laughs once, bitterly. "He's as 'cheerful' as I am. You're too lazy and bright for this life. I would tell you to try not to get yourself or your brothers killed, but that wouldn't be honest, would it?"

He doesn't argue. She leaves him there in the dark, idly thinking that in a fair world, he might have been something special, an artist, perhaps, or an entertainer. But the world is not fair, and so he is a lively clown in the underground, performing comedic acrobatics for an audience of killers. Michelangelo is innocent poison-laughing bait that lures his enemies to their deaths, a distraction to the family around him.

She doesn't expect him to last another year.

**Eclipse**

Donatello has enemies, corporations that would love to assassinate the competition, governments that want America's preeminent cybergenetic engineer dead, and religious and ecological zealots who decry his work as against God and Gaia. Bombs have been set by divers against the foundations of the tower, poisons have been sent by mail, and every new hire is a potential spy or killer.

"You sure about this?" Raphael asks, watching the city from the roof. A few office lights are still burning and the apartments in the top of each skyscraper cast a gold glow on the ocean.

Donatello has spies and assassins of his own, though he doesn't know it. Raphael excuses himself to ride his bike along the beach further past the city, and no one notices the side trip he makes that night to the hotel with a Chinese agent esconced within. And even when a would-be killer is a new manager in Hamato Heavy Industries itself, no one ever spots the body chopped and dropped into the shark or tiger or Tasmanian Wolf's feed. Leonardo knows all of the camera's blindspots.

"Don't have a choice," Leonardo says. The wind is soft and cool, full of salt and exhaust and rain. There's a storm coming but the thunder and lightning won't land for a few more hours.

"He's gonna panic," Raphael says. "And when you come home, no telling what he'll do. Cage you up like his pets downstairs, maybe."

Leonardo half shrugs. There's simply no choice, not this time. The woman hiring hits on Donatello is too canny to leave her Gene-clipse Enterprise laboratory deep within her security network, and she always finds an excuse to miss the yearly Obon festival. They both feel deep frustration over that. Obon was their best scheme for luring in the wealthy bastards hiding daggers behind their smiles.

"Let me come," Raphael says. "We haven't done this in years. Decades. You need me for backup."

Leonardo nods. "You're right. I do need you. But what happens if Don locks us both up?"

Raphael sighs. One of them needs to stay free to keep Don safe. Of course he's already thought of that. Still, he half grins. "I was hoping you'd say yes."

"I would if I could," Leonardo says. "Be just like old times."

"Yeah," Raphael murmurs. "Been a long time since we raced each other through the city."

"After this," Leonardo promises. "We'll go out."

Raphael shakes his head. "In a year when he's forgiven you. Ten bucks says he won't even let you out of the bedroom for a week."

"Probably more," Leonardo says.

He hates to think about what Donatello might do. Like the time he spent silent, Donatello has become paranoid, carefully monitoring their movements and tracking them when they leave the tower. Raphael's bike has been equipped with a tracking chip, although Donatello has found more and more reasons to keep Raphael at home, and he insists that Michelangelo's visits to the galleries be done in a private HHI boat to his own security specifications. Leonardo hasn't been able to sneak out of the tower in months.

"You'll take care of him?" Leonardo asks.

A laugh. "You have to ask?"

Never, but it's comforting to hear it. So much could go wrong on this venture-security systems have become nightmares for even the best ninja - and there's always the chance that Leonardo might have to stay out for longer than just one night. Even if he isn't killed, captured or arrested, when he comes home, he won't be in any position to protect Donatello.

Raphael touches his face and takes a kiss. He doesn't bother telling him to be careful. He would rather Leonardo take the risks necessary to kill the bitch and then come home in one piece. He watches him leave through the door to the roof, and then he's alone in the stairwell.

He sighs and heads back to the lair. If he's lucky, Donatello will be cloistered in his lab for another day or two and Leonardo will be back before their brothers realize anything is amiss. Inside their bedroom, he lays down on the pile of blankets and pillows and stares out the window at the clouds.

**Grave**

Bishop lay as if it was normal to sun himself on a raft of industrial strength composite fiberglass. Strong enough to build his skyscraper, it had sheared like paper when the oceans spilled against it. Powerful as he was, he was lucky the waves hadn't done the same to him.

_Water water everywhere_  
_and all the boards did shrink_  
_water water everywhere_  
_and not a drop to drink_

He scowled. Snatches of famous poetry-was that what he was reduced to? Reciting what few verses he knew wouldn't keep him sane. Useless to bother.

Besides, he knew he could probably compose better.

He turned on his side. The ragged edge of his raft curled to give him some meager shade, but it was little comfort as the water reflected the white sun at him. Time seemed to go in circles here.

_circles and ripples of sunlight_  
_molten diamonds sparkle on the ocean_  
_alone on an empty field_

Not too shabby, Bishop thought. He hoped it was true that he was alone. Only Donatello knew what generic freaks were loose in the waters now. He often suspected that Donatello had seeded the oceans with megafauna that should have stayed extinct-ancient monstrous sea turtles, giant squid and megatooth sharks. He hoped nothing saw his raft and surged up in attack.

At least he was relieved to have drifted beyond the chum of dead bodies and broken buildings. Floating amongst the dead forced him to see the devastation of the pole shift, the tops of skyscrapers poking out of the waves and fish gnawing on rotting carcasses. Here in the midst of the deceptively placid waters, he could forget how utterly devastated the world was.

How many people had survived the earth's dramatic turn, flipping the equator up towards the northern hemisphere? How many cities? He had no means of building a rudimentary radio, even if anyone was transmitting.

_on a broken field of glass_  
_the waves in the distance-broken shards_  
_blood sun sea sky_  
_the stained glass of my grave_

He was going to die here and he was deliriously crafting poetry. He cursed himself, but he could think of no alternative. He blinked and it was nightime. Dehydrated, starving, drifting in and out of snatches of disjointed verses, he'd run out of any options other than falling over the side and drowning.

So when he felt the cool shadow of a boat over him and the familiar, contemptible, maddening voices followed the three-fingered hands-

"Damn, of all the guys who'd survive it..."

"He's not such a jerk when he ain't talking."

"No wonder we haven't seen any sharks nearby. Bishop must've eaten them."

-he just closed his eyes during his rescue and wondered if he should've tossed himself into the waters in the first place.

_Out of a desert and into a paradise_  
_of steel, electronics and signs of_  
_civilizations newly lost at sea_

Later on, Michelangelo would weasel how he survived out of him, tease the poem out of his head, then write it down and call it S.O.S. The New Atlantis.

**Weapon**

Donatello holds himself together for the first day, pretending that throwing himself into his work will protect him. He holds himself together a second day, shaking around a sixteenth cup of coffee after a sick all-nighter. The third day that Leonardo is gone, he gives up trying to pretend and ignores all of his projects, hobbies and goals. There is only his brother missing, and he suddenly remembers Raphael's comment decades ago at the farm-if Leonardo really wanted to disappear, they would never be able to find him.

His lab techs panic. In the generations of people who have worked there, none of the brothers ever disappeared like this. Donatello never acted like this. The company's rumor mill goes wild, but only inside the company. Outside of Hamato Heavy Industries, reporters complain about the abruptly draconian security measures, the camera seizures and endless detours through corridors as they're scanned for contraband. And the brothers view endless security tapes.

Raphael sighs and stares at the computer screen, not afraid of of being caught on film as Leonardo vanished. He blocked out that particular camera himself, running a feedback loop that replayed the same five seconds of an empty stairwell.

"Hurry up already," he whispers, wondering why Leonardo took so long. The assassination shouldn't have taken more than an hour. He begins to question his faith in his brother. After all these years, is Leonardo still at risk of melting into the shadows and never reappearing?

"Anything?" Donatello says, standing in the doorway with an oversized mug of coffee. Dark circles ring his eyes like a black mask.

"Nothing on Leo," Raphael answers. He could make a quip about the two lab techs he caught making out above the Jurassic terrarium or the reporter caught sneaking through a checkpoint and stripsearched, but he doesn't. Donatello is a wire drawn tight-any more pressure and he'll snap and recoil back on anyone unlucky enough to be nearby.

For a moment he wants to stand up, hold Donatello, tell him it'll be all right and that Leonardo will be home soon, and explain the plan and his role in it. It's an insane thought-he can't risk drawing Donatello's wrath on himself. If-when, he tells himself, when Leonardo comes home, he'll be under a long house arrest. Donatello needs a bodyguard that can still move freely.

An instamessage pops up on his screen. It's his news feed giving him the recent headline on a subject he has subscribed. The head scientist of Gene-clipse Enterprise is dead-a botched corporate espionage scheme that left her slicing her wrists in disgrace. Raphael draws as much solace as he can from it. Leonardo did it, and he wasn't caught.

Donatello sees the headline and grimaces, turning away. "God damn it, Soon-Yuk. I warned you."

Raphael blinks and looks up at him in surprise. "Huh? You knew her?"

"She was trying to steal my research," Donatello says readily. "Mine and Tech Horizon's and Luna Cell's. I think she had agents in Bishop's company, too. Guess she finally went after someone dangerous."

"You knew that?" Raphael says, swivelling his chair to face him. "You always acted like you didn't give a damn. Like you didn't even notice."

Donatello shrugs. "We were in the same field. I read her journals. She was decades behind me. Besides, why worry? You always found and fired any spies she had. You and Leo."

At the mention of Leonardo, Donatello's mood darkens and he takes another gulp of coffee.

"Keep looking. I'll send Mikey up to relieve you in an hour."

The command is implicit. Raphael isn't to leave that chair until Donatello gives his permission. He watches his brother leave again, closing the door behind him, and he looks back at the computer.

Donatello knew about the spying, but Raphael is sure he didn't know about the assassination attempts. Donatello would never tolerate a killer loose near his brothers. He runs his company with a tight iron fist, no matter that everyone inside is happy. Nothing happens without his say unless his siblings somehow sneak it past him.

It isn't fair that he has to hide the kills, Raphael thinks. They're just proactive self-defense, really. But Donatello always hated combat and killing. He would try to stop them now, especially since it means Leonardo or Raphael has to leave the tower. He especially won't let them leave the tower.

As he sits down, Raphael considers how he has come to obey Donatello's commands. It isn't that his brother will hurt him. Raphael will always be bigger and stronger. But Donatello wields that unholy temper that smolders for hours until finally it turns into a forest fire when he isn't looking. And Donatello in a rage is not something he wants to see. Not with all the resources and focus that his company can bring to bear on an unlucky turtle.

Leo, Raphael thinks, wondering why his brother is waiting after killing Soon-Yuk. Come home quick. Before Donatello goes totally mad.


	16. Chapter 16

**81. Body**

Within the tight confines of the Magdalena, the family learns that-between the battle to survive the endless ocean and the despair of ever finding land-downtime is precious, and breathing room even moreso.

Michelangelo stakes out the command deck. Clear polymer and reinforced alloys create a small window that let in sunlight, and he spreads a towel and pillow in the warm rays. He would have used a lawn chair, but they didn't have any on the ship. He has to make luxury out of necessities, and he makes the hard steel floor and hot sunlight look like heaven.

Raphael learns all of the corridors of the ship, wandering through the steel shafts and up ladders that send hollow echoes around him. He has flashbacks of the old lair, dark shadows and the sound of water out of sight beside him. Out of sentiment, he brings his old sai with him, flipping them in and out of his hand and remembering the nights as a teenager when he wandered underground, promising himself that one night he'd climb out of the darkness and never crawl back again. Now he walks through the hollow emptiness and feels like he hasn't gained an inch.

Leonardo watches the ocean currents through a porthole on the Magdelena's starboard side. He knew that Donatello had seeded the oceans with ancient species, but the earth's pole shift has sent up stranger creatures than even his brother imagined. Sharks, squids, whales, schools of fish that extend for hundreds of feet-they pass by the porthole like shadows in the distance, sometimes coming right up to his face, sharp teeth and curious eyes that regard him for a moment and dart away again. He meets their eyes with a growing self-assurance he'd forgotten he had.

Donatello has little downtime. In the moments between charting a newly altered ocean floor, navigating coral reefs that used to be cities, he curls up to sleep in his seat. He doesn't want to wallow in the shadows with Raphael, sleep the minutes away with Michelangelo, or watch all the creatures that would eat them if the Magdelena ever loses structural integrity. His sleep reminds him of the statistical impossibility of finding people still alive. The oceans are merciless and most of the land above water used to be deep below. He holds out some hope for New York, but even the tallest skyscrapers might have fallen against tons of water crashing against them. In his dreams, he feels that water smashing him to pieces.

When they find Bishop half-alive and delirious, it's with a sense of joy, of stealing something back from the water.

**82. Torn**

"A company is kind of like a machine," April said, savoring both the conversation with Donatello and the glass of wine. Both made a winter evening under a blanket pleasant and warm.

"I don't think I can create a company out of spare junk like everyone else," Donatello said, taking a sip from her glass.

"You can," she said. "Contrary to popular belief, companies don't appear overnight. You have to build them up from nothing first."

"Well, not nothing exactly," he said. "I've got the url registered, I've rented the warehouse I mentioned before, the one by the dock, and I think I know what to start on first."

"Really?" She perked up in interest. "And what's that, my soon to be rival?"

"Biochemical megafauna reverse recombinant genesplicing," he said with a grin. "I already know I want to start with a smilodon."

"'Reverse'..." she echoed. Her eyes widened as she understood. "Recreating extinct animals? That's a little ambitious for a company out of your garage."

"Not when I have access to Utrom technology," he said. "Their wetware alone..."

"You trust that stuff?" she said with a shiver. "You're still learning how it works."

"I've got about fifty percent of it figured out," he said. "I'll pick up the rest of it as I go."

She shook her head. "Well, as long as you don't blow yourself up."

His grin was a mix of unrepentant sheepishness. "But that's usually half the fun."

She laughed despite herself. "Don't let Leonardo hear you say that-that kind of reckless attitude'll get you in trouble."

He shook his head once, taking another sip. "Nah, hard to yell at us if he doesn't."

Her smile faded and she fell silent for a moment, thoughtfully swirling her wine. "He hasn't said anything? How do you guys get things done?"

He gave a half shrug. "He killed Saki. Karai went back to Japan. The clan's out of our lives. We don't need him to tell us what to do anymore, at least not if we're not fighting. "He paused to take another sip and stare out the window. "Besides, he's spent. They all are. Losing Master Splinter really hit them hard. But it's okay-I have a lot of good ideas to take care of them."

Prickles of concern ran along her mind but she said nothing, hiding her concern behind the wine. The four of them were fragmenting-did they realize it?

Splinter's death had really hard them hard in ways she didn't think they'd even noticed. Raphael had seen his father slip away and did his best to take care of Leonardo and Michelangelo, sending how fragile life was and how many risks they'd already taken. Michelangelo hid his hurt well, trying hard to keep a brave face, but he'd lost his equilibrium and he flailed as if falling. April was sure if he didn't find an anchor soon, he'd come apart completely.

And of course Leonardo. Funny how his silence didn't worry her so much as its effect on the others. She suspected his sudden quietness was actually a way of healing, of withdrawing from a world that had suddenly become too overwhelming with the loss of his father, and doubted that the silence would last forever.

But Donatello...he held himself together and yet she suspected the wounds were simply scarred over with him. As he jotted a quick note on his tablet, his fingers tapping precisely and one-handed, he reminded her of a porcelain figure, long smashed and taped up again, and while she only spotted faint cracks here and there, she knew the jagged edges were grinding together until they were smooth. He was still Donatello, but the pieces of himself didn't fit together as neatly as before.

"How old are you?" she suddenly asked.

"Huh?" He blinked. "Um, we don't really-"

"Just approximate," she said.

"We're all twenty two or twenty three maybe," he said, "give or take. How come?"

She let herself smile. So young. And already there was so much behind their eyes. Saki, Karai, space travel, time travel...the mere act of surviving as long as they had in the city's drainage system. She wondered if maybe they hadn't always this fragmented and were just dealing with it the best way they could.

She blamed the wine for putting her hand on his face, gently touching him until he smiled shyly back.

**83. Secret**

Toxic oils are still Michelangelo's favorite medium. Donatello indulges him, but only with state of the art ventilation and garish "Flammable-Danger" signs all around the studio. But then he also keeps Michelangelo stocked with canvases, paints of all sorts, clay, stone, glass and anything else he might want, so Michelangelo doesn't complain. If he isn't with his siblings, he's in here, even on the most important night of the year.

On Obon, a few minutes before the lanterns are scheduled to rise, Michelangelo leans back and stares at his latest painting. It will be a week before the oil finally dries, giving him plenty of time to fix the picture just right, but for now he regards the completed piece, finding the flaws.

Few flaws. Decades of practice, more than any human could enjoy, have honed his talent to photorealism even in the most unforgiving mediums. In oil, his subject stands breathing on the canvas as the wind touches his white fur.

Usagi-the last time Michelangelo saw him was years after Leonardo had said goodbye to the samurai. His fur hid the creeping grey and his back was unbent, his ears straight, eyes clear. At first Michelangelo had thought Usagi was similarly long lived, but then he saw how the rabbit had slowed down, moved with aches and stiffness, and let his son and students defend his school and village.

"I wanted to capture your portrait," Michelangelo had explained. "I wanted an image of everyone."

Usagi had looked at him, still so young in his eyes, and nodded.

That night in Usagi's bed, Michelangelo knew he was something of a replacement for his big brother. Not that Usagi ever treated him as a substitute-he knew the samurai would never have used him like that. But he was the last connection to that world, and the last time Usagi would ever see one of them.

"I'm glad," Usagi had said when the painting was done and Michelangelo started for home.

"That I came?" Michelangelo asked.

The rabbit had nodded. "And that you have left behind your deceitful ninjitsu. I wish, a little, that I could see him like this, but I am afraid that if I saw him without that dishonor, I might not recognize him. And that I couldn't bear."

At first Michelangelo wanted to defend Leonardo's honor, all of their honor. Seeing the steely look of Usagi's eyes, however, he just shrugged and finished his painting quickly. He was home before the next night.

When Leonardo asked what he was painting in his studio, Michelangelo told him that he'd spent too much time surrounded by admirerers in galleries, and that he needed to paint out his sense of pride. When that explanation made Leonardo curious to see the picture, Michelangelo demurred, telling him that the picture had come out uglier than he expected.

**84. Sharp**

Stab - the blade was never his family. He knows that now. It was always his own self-doubt finding the soft vulnerable spots beneath his shell and plunging deep. Better than any enemy, he always knew exactly where to cut.

Chop - Time is the sword, cutting Michelangelo off from each world he creates for himself. First his friends and father. Now his paintings and publishing. He feels like his right hand has been severed, still holding the brush.

Slice - A cut here, a cut there. Lose Casey. Lose his father. Lose his friends. Lose his city. How many little cuts does it take to be fatal? Raphael sits at the edge of the boat under the ocean spray, and he feels the salt water stinging all his unseen wounds.

Rip - Donatello comes up hard against the problems he can't fix. They tear him down the middle. The more he thinks of it, the more he feels his jagged edges pulling apart. He cannot engineer the entire world. The impossibleness, the global scale, rake across his brain like claws.

**85. Journey**

Bossing his brothers at age 6.  
In charge of them at 13.  
Responsible for them in a fight at 15.  
Devoted to ending their clan's feud at 16.  
Loved a samurai at 17.  
Recognized he loved his brothers at 18.  
Losing his father at 23.  
Defeating an alien armada-but defeated by the tv news cameras-at 24.  
Dragged into the world by his little brother at 24.  
Silent at 26.  
Ceding to Donatello's authority...unknown.  
Saying goodbye to Usagi at 42.  
Saying goodbye to April and Casey at 56.  
Saying goodbye to Karai at 63.  
Saying goodbye to Shadow at 94.  
Intimate with Bishop at at 121.  
Locked up by Donatello's paranoia at 134.  
Surviving a tilted planet at 135.  
Ordering Donatello to steer back to New York before despair rips his brother apart at 15 minutes ago.  
The journey of a thousand miles brings him back to the first step.


	17. Chapter 17

**Book**

More precious than gold again-paper and ink. Donatello can reintroduce to humanity the means of pulping wood, grinding ink, binding rough pages, but for the survivors, reading's a luxury best ignored in favor of learning to hunt. It isn't easy making do with knives, scavenged guns, bullets and juryrigged traps. Rabbit and fish are damned hard to kill when you used to be an accountant, an engineer, a teacher. Reading and starvation go hand in hand.

Solar panels and hydroturbines power the computers on the Magdalena, fueling Donatello's desperate rush to save information. There are occasional flashes of an internet, remnants kept alive by satellite and servers mercifully still above water. He prints out desperate sheaves of information-philosophy, art, music, language. Paper jams are blasphemies. Dead lines are obscenities. Why were so many sites devoted to meaningless forum games, useless trivia, grotesque humor? Civiliations monuments are drowning and he's left sifting through scraps.

He thinks of how suddenly the cataclysm struck, how swiftly the world was swept under, the temples and machines corroding under the salt ocean...

It happened before. He's sure of it. Cataclysmic pole shift may even happen again.

Not that he could have stopped it. But he could have prepared, he could have safeguarded, could have saved so many people, people that are now food for the prehistoric creatures he seeded the oceans with.

When he tears himself from the computer and printer, finally takes himself to bed, he cannot read himself to sleep. He is sick of words and screens.

**Mask**

How long does he have to keep on this mask? He's worn that mask for so long that after years and years, it became part of him. The anger, the sarcasm, the reckless behavior and the vicious snipping at his brothers...they're parts of him he does't want anymore, but getting rid of them will be like tearing off an arm. Tearing off his face.

He puts his hand on either side of his head and pulls. Flesh separates. Muscle and sinew tear from bone. Useless rage and meaningless self-pity tear like cloth.

Cooped up in the sewers-no, he lived in a skyscraper, in a ship, with the open air and sunlight.

In the dark away from humanity-no, he is a celebrity of the Hamato family and known to all humans.

Locked in clan warfare-but his enemies are all dead.

The mask slips. It is not him anymore. Blood pours like a sheet down his chin. These last bits of mask clinging to his bones go the hardest.

Bad boy. Off.

Wild child. Off.

Secret weapon. Off.

Angry teenager. Off.

The mask leaps free.

He breathes his first clear breath in a lifetime.

And sets about finding who Raphael really is.

**Haunted**

He has been possessed of the dead for too long. He let them possess him, to the point where memory and fear owned him. Can he lose his old family and friends? Must he lose them? Casey, April, Splinter...these shades lock around his heart, warming it and choking him.

Exorcism.

The deed is horribly personal-too personal to show even his brothers. There is no ritual he can perform-he must do this without the comfort of ceremonies and shrines now drowned at the bottom of the sea. He must do this without any idea of what he's doing.

And yet it's also very simple. He stands at the railing of the Magdalena and breathes the clean sea air. The starts are lanterns sailing on black water. It's Obon, the festival of ghosts, and one by one he lets them slip away.

"I won't forget you," he whispers, hands tense on the railing. He's afraid of falling in more than one sense. This is dangerous. Forget too much and what will be left of himself?

Usagi. His indulgent smile, always disappointed that Leonardo embraced ninjitsu, faded into the dark waters. Splinter, sternly nodding his vague approval, vanished like an ephemeral wave.

After those two, the rest were easy. Even April who poured out her heart during his silent years slips out of his heart so quickly that he wonders why he thought this would be hard. Around his heart, the chains unlock, heavy iron links that dissolve and let him breathe again.

Something ancient and huge, a silhouette of Donatello's design, lifts its head out of the ocean and takes a breath. Water streams off its back and pushes the waves faster, spurring the paper stars farther away from Leonardo. He watches his memories drift past the moonlight, out of sight, and the sea monster fades with them.

The sea is full of ghosts. Leonardo feels completely alive.

**Last**  
(a pantoum)  
The world is a graveyard of broken tombstones scraping the sky  
and shoots of green life in blue waves leaping over the white foam  
Ancient monsters claim new steel and asphalt territory  
long bones like dry sea serpents show birds the whale's road

and shoots of green life in blue waves leaping over the white foam  
He listens to the water whisper susurrations from miles below  
long bones like dry sea serpents show birds the whale's road  
the stars are water drops sprayed into the night

He listens to the water whisper susurrations from miles below  
Obon lanterns again rise by candlelight and float  
the stars are water drops sprayed into the night  
like spirits released out into the moonlight

Obon lanterns again rise by candlelight and float  
the world is a dark river crossed in their lonely boat  
like spirits released out into the moonlight  
four beating hearts in a world of drowned ghosts

the world is a dark river crossed in their lonely boat  
Ancient monsters claim new steel and asphalt territory  
four beating hearts in a world of drowned ghosts  
The world is a graveyard of broken tombstones scraping the sky

**Inside**

_I must remember to thank Donatello for this journal. I've seen how he looks at blank books now. Parting with this must have been like ripping pages out of his own heart. No doubt my thanks will startle him. Note to self: do so when his siblings are present. I have to see their looks when I do._

I can't stand myself. I'm alive and I shouldn't be. I have failed. Utterly. I wanted to keep my world safe from outside forces. Turns out I should have been looking on the inside, below the surface. Did this happen in the future timeline that Donatello mentioned? I don't think so. The time stream cannot be predicted-even from the future looking past. The time stream is just that, a stream of water without a canyon or riverbed to keep it in place. I should have planned for every contingency, not just little green men.

The turtles don't like me referring to little green men. They think I'm joking about them.

The turtles...there are worse places I could be right now. Floating deliriously on a raft of debris. Eaten by one of Donatello's monstrous prehistoric sea turtles. Underwater with the rest of my laboratory. At least here on this ship, I can help rebuild. On land I would be surviving like the rest. Here I can help restore civilization. I'm actually taking a break from copying out my mathematical knowledge to write this.

Also, here they know me. Maybe too well. But we know each other. Raphael knows what buttons to push so we can both let off steam, although I'm not allowed to hurt him. Michelangelo cajoles me into watching his archive of movies and shows with him. I admit that mocking the characters relaxes me somewhat, although I won't tell him that. Donatello gives me purpose again. I owe him the world for that, effectively saving me when I would have drowned under the weight of what remains to be done. And Leonardo provides adequate sexual relief. Not that I mind arguing philosophy with him. He's remarkably knowledgeable though he pretends otherwise. But the boy is nearly a contortionist and I find his physical twists much more pleasant than his mental ones.

They are a delight in bed. Or against the bulkhead. Sprawled across the deck in the sun, or pressed against the cold steel of a railing in the engine room. I have my pick of all of them now. Best is when they're all inside their bedroom. My personal cabin is across the way, but on the nights I am invited or invite myself, there is never hesitation. They are amazing creatures, so similar to me despite our looks. I don't have to worry about breaking them accidentally. And if Leonardo is flexible, than all of them together are a carnival of positions and movement. They know each other so well that they move in response, fitting together neatly. I am spectator and participant in one.

Some part of me still longs to take them apart. I could do it easily now. They trust me. There are dozens of secluded spots on this giant ship where I could tie one up and dissect him piece by piece.

I don't. They saved my life. More importantly, they are saving this planet. And slowly I am finding that taking apart their minds and examining their souls to be more rewarding than a few pounds of meat and bone.

When we finally build civilization back enough to create MRI machines, though, I will insist on scanning them all. And I hope we manage that within a few centuries. Otherwise I wonder if my patience will hold out. (Yes, Michelangelo, you will be first if I catch you reading this.)


	18. Chapter 18

**Dawn**

Standing at the ship's prow, Bishop watches the sun coming up, taking a much needed break from work-repairing the ship, repairing the world, and repairing his companions

Humanity is like a machine. Right now they are loose pieces scattered in all directions, screws, nuts and bolts building themselves into ugly, haphazard engines of civilization and ripping themselves out again as they form tribes, villages, mobs and factions. Handfuls of what's left of humanity die off here and there, but from his vantage point from the top of eternity, Bishop can watch them making progress. Humanity is strained and worked to her limit, but what's there is strong, broken but clinging to each other.

There's grease on his hands. Oil. Grime. He's worked on more engines than he can count. They drop anchor at every ruined port, every grassy embankment where they see smoke. Smoke means wood stoves or, more promising, coal and steam and in a few rare instances an actual diesel or gasoline engine. Smoke means men recreating old technology, relearning to smelt and rivet, or in the cities it means people cannibalizing machines for useful parts and salvaging gasoline stations. They even came upon an oil rig that had mostly survived and was close to being fully functional again.

"Nice sunrise," Donatello said.

Bishop glanced at him. Black circles lined the soft eyes, and his olive skin had a strange pale cast to it. In the morning light, the turtle looked like a mirage that would fade in the growing heat.

"You came up," he said in mild surprise.

"They say I work too hard," Donatello murmured.

As another consummated workaholic, Bishop wouldn't quite agree, but he put his hand on Donatello's, mingling engine oil and grease. While Bishop worked everywhere, Donatello stayed on the ship and kept the Magdalena in working order. Adding that on top of his other burdens like mapping the new global landscape and restarting civilization, he was one worn out turtle.

"You could do with more sun," Bishop said.

"Haven't seen it in awhile," he said with a yawn. "At least that's still the same."

Bishop watched him for a moment, glimpsing the other three working on the command deck. After this much time, he and Donatello's siblings are adept at simple repairs on the ship, working together like pistons and flywheels, and Bishop briefly saw the ship not as a lifeboat drifting on the ocean but rather as a gigantic engine. Donatello was a brilliant engineer, and the entire world has become his machine. He planted cogs here and there, and the pieces began to turn again, grinding together at first, but day after day, decade after decade, they watched the engine grow in complexity.

Bishop was determined that they would build the world better this time.

0o0o0o0o

**Fire**

Michelangelo dreams of rocketships. He sneaks paper off of Donatello's desk sometimes-risky at best, downright lethal at worst. It isn't like stealing a piece out of the printer. The paper they have is rough, pounded wood pulp. The ink they have is made out of berries and plants-the factory that makes ink is in Brazil, and it's far too precious to use on poetry. It's more important for drawing blueprints and maps.

upside down like a blue hourglass the world tilts and I fall against you

Poetry is a sin. He scratches the words as small as he can, then tucks the paper inside one of Leonardo's books, a volume of haiku that could very well be the last one on earth. They all have little time to read, however, and it's four months before he finds the reply tucked in his own heavy compilation of Shakespeare. The handwriting is just as cramped, struggling to save space. This may be the only paper they can write on for years.

in the shifting sand, an anchor I hold you and the world is still

The paper eventually falls apart before they can fill it up.

0o0o0o0o0o

**Metal**

Bishop once tried to vivisect him. That will always color their relationship.

Bishop now keeps them all sane. And besides, didn't they cause him to lose his government funding? He still carries a bit of a grudge.

The man is remarkably adept at blacksmithing. Leonardo leans against the doorframe, throwing a shadow across the forge, but Bishop doesn't turn around. He never does. Leonardo waits, watching silently, and Bishop hammers another plow into a pistol.

"It seems pathetic," Bishop says over his shoulder, tossing the pistol barrel onto a pile of other gun parts. "To come so far in nurturing new cities, and now the same sick drama plays out again. It's such a waste of time."

Leonardo half shrugs. "People fight. They can't help it."

"They're stupid," Bishop says, removing his leather apron and taking his shirt from where he'd draped it over the door. He ignores the forge, letting it cool, and he walked past Leonardo towards the stream. "They can't even remember what the world used to be. To hear them tell it, New York was a mythical paradise."

It's Bishop's usual rant. Leonardo doesn't reply and follows him down the path to the water. Farther up the hill, the village is slowly growing into a town, which has made it a ripe target for the tribe of bandits across the valley. The town rests on the outskirts of what used to be Moscow, and now serves as a port to ocean trade. Leonardo simply counts them lucky that they have superstition on their side. All of them enjoy the worship of the local towns-offerings of fruit, fish, crops and of course statues.

"I guess you didn't like the statue they built to you?" Leonardo says.

"Statue..." Bishop mutters. "I'm not a god."

Hundreds of years ago, Leonardo would have quipped that their worship merely matched Bishop's ego, but that was no longer fair to the man. Besides, Leonardo is not interested in riling him up.

"You can understand why they think so," Leonardo says. "We're almost immortal."

"We're not immortal," Bishop snaps, dropping the rest of his clothes. "And I hope you remember that when you're creeping through those ruins. I can't believe Donatello lets you do it."

Steeling himself for the cold stream, Bishop drops into the water to wash off the sweat and grime of his iron working. As he splashes back up, rinsing off his hair, Leonardo eases in, shuddering as he climbs in beside him. It doesn't blend with the light colors, but in the city, the shadows are deep and he can move unseen through the enemy's camp.

"I'm not as...comfortable with humans," Leonardo says, leaning against Bishop's back.

Bishop glances at him and quirks an eyebrow. Comfortable or not, Leonardo loves his warmth. He nods once. "And you're the family assassin again."

Leonardo smiles unapologetically. "It's what I'm good at."

The cold water is too much to bear for long, and Leonardo gives up trying to leech all of Bishop's heat, especially since the man won't turn and hold him. He climbs up on the grass and stretches out, readjusting as Bishop follows and creeps over him.

"You're too damn tall," Leonardo murmurs, complaining at how Bishop easily covers him and pins him down, hands on his wrists.

For a moment, Bishop didn't answer, simply staring into Leonardo's eyes as if searching for an answer, and he gave one of his rare, wry smiles.

"It's good to have you back," Bishop says.

"I never left," Leonardo says, frowning in confusion.

"You left for more than five hundred years," Bishop says. "And maybe more than that, before I saw you locked up in Donatello's tower. "

Leonardo wants to get up, even scoot back and away from him. Bishop refuses to loosen his grip.

"The responsibility put on you that early must have been traumatic," Bishop goes on as carelessly as if discussing the clear sky, not concerned with Leonardo's twisting. "I agree. But it's been a few centuries. I'm glad you're finally over it."

Bishop chuckles at the stubborn glare he got. Leonardo likes to pretend he handles himself well, but a little well aimed criticism can make him flare up just like Raphael. Since he can't move or fight, he goes rigid and refuses to look away first.

"You have no idea," Leonardo grinds out. "And I wouldn't even be trying again except..."

The unspoken word hangs between them. Bishop nods once and sits back, letting Leonardo sit up. He laughs at how the turtle rubs his wrists as if he'd never bruised that spot before.

"Except Donatello is falling apart," Bishop agrees. "I know. We all know."

"He's too lost in trying to save the world," Leonardo says, softly but with growing confidence. "We're pulling him back."

Sighing, Bishop put out his hand, cupping Leonardo's face and letting his thumb run gently just under his eye. There it is, that boundless optimism that they still kept hold of. He used to think it was youthful naivete. Now Bishop finds himself taking more and more comfort in their feelings, even if he can't let himself indulge in the same.

"I believe you," Bishop says, and surprised himself.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

**Defeat**

Four hundred years and Raphael still wrestles with how to craft a line of poetry. Even now, looking at the verses Leonardo and Michelangelo write only makes him feel like an awkward teenager. They make plain, ordinary, everyday things like umbrellas and anchors sound so fancy. Him? He thinks about what he should write for weeks, too afraid to touch a pen before he knows exactly what to scribble out.

Bad enough that even his handwriting looks like cobwebs. He hasn't had a chance to practice his penmanship in centuries, and yet Michelangelo and Leonardo manage to keep their letters looking crisp and clean. He found their poems on brittle paper, safely between the pages of Michelangelo's favorite art book-he wouldn't have looked inside except he wanted to see a real sculpture, something masterfully done, not one of the crudely hacked out idols humans have now.

He only now appreciated the tall buildings, the artificial lights, the sleek steel of a motorcycle. He would've sworn he was the only person to even think of a motorcycle in years. The curve of the rims, the straight lines of the frame, the deep growl of its engine as he drove it in a blur down rain-slicked pavement...

New York was a legend, a mythological place like Gehenna or Hades. Lady Liberty rusted under the salt water, along with the shattered remains of sky scrapers along the ocean floor. Raphael feels like a speedbike rusting with them.

The next poem comes out in a rush, and he snarls as he tries to write without cracking the fragile paper.

bikes falling apart under the water revving drowning I ve seen it like coral reefs i don't even remember what one sounds like the tires spin slowly I'm trying to ride and I'm drowning I don t' know where the road is anymore and no one could repair it anyway

Looking back over it, he only thinks 'what a mess' but can't tell how to fix it.

He tucks the paper back in the book next to the picture Michelangelo had chosen before, a large spread of the Sistine Chapel. That's gone too, of course. The book is like a tomb holding thousands of ghosts.

Mankind is slowly creeping back up to what he once was. The Pasoans, who live in what used to be Texas, have learned how to make good paint again, and they've been trading along the coast down to the Juahaca, a piece of Mexico and the gulf. Other countries have galleons ships, an early steam engine, real clocks...

Part of him wants to give them this book for inspiration. The other part clings to it and sets it safely back in their collection.

He'll give it to them later.

0o0o0o0o0o

**Forget**

"I didn't realize what it meant," Michelangelo said to the air. "To live this long."

Madonna. Elvis. Mozart. Acrylicca. Orphemy. Essuul. So many different names in time that he remembered, and what did they matter? So much hadn't survived the cataclysm. Languages, cultures had drowned-and the world went on. He often felt like he was the only one who noticed or remembered. No one else remembered Zalja who perform at the last Obon on Hamato Heavy Industries, singing at the very edge of the building and tempting the wind to push her off, her silicon hair catching the fire light as she danced for the crowd.

Had he only imagined a man named Beethoven and an Ode to Joy? Had he only imagined painting a swirling night sky as paper lanterns drifted over the ocean?

Tonight the air twists the faint fog and mist over the valley. It reminds him of an ocean they once sailed as they righted the world. That had been a long time ago as he figured it, and he counted off decades like other people counted months.

His paper lantern is small, just big enough to fit in his hand, and the candle inside slowly fills it with warmth until it strains at his fingertips.

His brothers have all done this ages ago, even before they could finally live on land again. They never mention names or faces from the beginning, though Michelangelo is sure they never truly forgot. His first family and friends will always be deep within his heart. But now he's finally come to terms with letting the memories bury themselves, inside but uncovered.

The world has changed.

The world is change.

He doesn't think he's the same Michelangelo as he was in the past.

The lantern, as small as his heart, pulls out of his hands and leaps into the air, staggering this way and that as it finds its way, cutting through the mist. The fog tumbles in surprise, then follows the flame. Michelangelo watches the gray parade of ghosts slip away with the lantern and the rising sun.


	19. Chapter 19

**Hide**

In the year 3528, now year 679 as the humans counted, Donatello accepts that he has averted the horrific future he once visited. His brothers are alive. Bishop is alive. Saki and all their countless enemies are dead. Their victory is elegant and simple. All they had to do was live.

The Magdalena IV is safely moored at the coastal port of Isthve, somewhere near where Florida used to be. He looks out the window at the city. It's the shining jewel of the world, a new New York, with skyscrapers two hundred stories tall, great turbines that harnessed the sea and winds for their energy, and grass and leaves curling up and through the buildings, creating a vision of steel supporting life.

He's created the world he once only imagined possible. There's still work to be done, but that's for men to do. Not gods.

Deep inside the Magdalena, comfortable in their sanctum, he withdraws from a recess in his shell a tiny bundle wrapped in a handkerchief. Gently drawing back the handkerchief, he reveals an old figurine of a turtle-remarkably well preserved with no chips, no fading. Yoshi's good luck charm is completely intact.

"I can't forget like they do," he whispers to the charm. "I remember all of you. April, Saki, Casey, Usagi...Master Splinter. You're all here. You'll always be here. But...forgive me if I let my mind wander away for years at a time."

He wraps up his master's old charm and tucks it away again. As long as he keeps it safe, they'll all stay safe. Maybe even Bishop. It's superstitious, but no moreso than the statues the humans keep building for them. Such a strange thing to see grand temples in their honor.

"One of these days I'll see you again," he says.

He doesn't believe it.

He knows it.

One day he will see his farthest friends and family. But not today.

**Walking**

Donatello thinks he may stay silent for a dozen years.

Humanity has caught up to itself, and it's a relief to set aside his tools and pick up a magazine, a manual, a novel. He looks over the latest issue of Deutoronomy's Journal, lingering over the glossy photos-pages and pages of photos from the bottom of the sea. There's the Pantheon, still somehow intact, and the Colosseum, now a gorgeous coral reef with rainbows of fish. He feels a little thrill of satisfaction at the pictures of the Archelon Ischyros, his ancient turtle creation, swimming through the Grand Canyon and devouring giant squid.

There are gardens of balancing rocks all across the ocean floor, creating a fairyland for the mermaids waving to the human's submersible. Uudi and Suuuuura smile as Riiaa keeps an eternal lookout. He traces her hair, slashed short, as it waves in the current. She looks as austere as the day he first met her, still protecting her sisters.

"You all right in here?" Leonardo asks from the doorway, leaning in.

Donatello nods once and smiles as Leonardo sits beside him, resting against his shoulder for a moment. His big brother can't spare very long. Leonardo's helping establish the vast library that will connect all the countries that want it. A few nations insist on miring themselves in self-repression, going so far as to ban music...

He shivers and lets the thought slip from his mind. Let them make their own hell. He didn't plan on saving everyone, and besides, it's Leonardo's job again. Let him figure everything out.

Glancing at his sibling, he raises one eyeridge as if to ask how it's coming. Leonardo understands and half-shrugs.

"Your priests told me it'll be up and working soon. They miss you, but they think you hiding away is all a test of their faith." He takes a quick kiss, his hand coming up and lightly touching Donatello's throat.

They both carry the memory of Leonardo's collar. It's been so long that it's only a whispered echo, but enough of the memory remains that Donatello wonders how he lets Leonardo out of his sight for days at a time now. He looks down, then back up at his brother.

At first Leonardo doesn't understand his silent question. A slow smile of recognition follows, and he shakes his head.

"No," he murmurs. "No going quiet. That's a lousy habit to develop."

Donatello frowns. That wasn't what he was hoping for. He wants a rest. He's earned it. Leonardo's laugh doesn't help.

"I know that look," he says. "Stubborn old turtle. You can whisper if you want, but I'm not spending years waiting to hear your voice."

This time Donatello looks away. As close as they are, the move speaks volumes. They each remember times they've done this before, to themselves and to their siblings, always having to cajole or nudge each other close again. Their actions are refined poetry now, and subtle differences are like new stanzas.

"You don't have to start talking right away," Leonardo says, answering his move. "I think you used own my body against me when I did this...a touch for a word, I think?"

Not quite-Donatello remembers through the haze of centuries the months that Leonardo was so happy being silent, so reluctant to come out of it, and he lets Leonardo misremember the cure for one of their silences. Leonardo will tell Raphael or Michelangelo. One of them might remember. Maybe they won't. He lays down and lets Leonardo slowly ply over him. He'll enjoy his brothers' efforts until he grows tired of being quiet.

He feels like he is travelling along a timeline that has come around in a perfect loop. They follow each other holding hands, walking the same path at different times.

**Eyes**

Bishop hates looking at them.

Their statues all look to the east to the rising sun, but each of them is completely different. Although Bishop still despises that they are worshipped, he at least agreed to keep up the facade if only to ensure that their burgeoning cults never begin to war against each other. There were some dicey years between Leonardo and Michelangelo's cults, and all four turtle cults against Bishop's, but the tensions have faded into philosophical wrangling through forums and books.

Donatello's statue stands tall and holds the mathematical compass. Bishop remembers the day they gave the perfect circle back to mankind, teaching them the value of pi and watching their faces light up with understanding. Other tools followed quickly-the slide rule, the protractor, the x/y plane, algebra. God was in the numbers and Donatello gave them the numbers. If Donatello is not the Almighty, then he is at least His chosen, His most high.

Michelangelo's is a testament to the human perception. The youngest turtle holds the scales of balance-he keeps the family from falling in on itself, making them laugh when they would be crushed otherwise, standing between fueding siblings and humanizing the turtles when their temperaments would have made them seem like distant gods. Michelangelo creates visions of heaven on his canvas to inspire mankind. Donatello rules the brain but Michelangelo rules the spirit-with laughter, with candy and sweets, with the occasional wise word or divine poem.

Raphael's statue upset the turtle when he first saw it-the stone wrists in short chains. The priests had to gently explain as if to a child that he is slave to his heart, and that they admire that in him. Where life is ruled by brutal practicality-do they share their crops and risk starvation, or keep their food and let a neighboring town die?-sentiment is a godly luxury. Love is divine. They have seen him live with almost purity of emotion, shedding tears, losing himself in delight, falling into rage and rising up again. He is their ideal man to emulate and aspire to. He accepted his statue a little more when he saw his was the only one with a smile.

Leonardo's holds a knife, cutting truth from falsehood. Usually he's quiet, the silent one who whispers in another god's ear, but on the rare occasion he speaks to a human, he sounds like he is quoting the Almighty. He is the second patron of art, the second muse. Michelangelo introduced painting and poetry, but Leonardo introduced strategy and bushido and communicates his teachings in verses he says come from the world before the Great Flood. The humans joke that no one can speak of honor and nobility with a straight face the way he can, but none of them want him to stop. Because the knife of truth is also a plain knife, and Leonardo is the turtle that does not flinch when he sees death. The humans prefer their god speaking about justice, for woe unto any sinner when he falls silent and his knife comes out of its sheathe.

Bishop's statue is plain, in the heavenly armor known as the Three Piece Suit. His priests never understood the use of the tie, and in their book of his given knowledge, transcribing both his wisdom and his sacred sarcasm, he once admitted he didn't understand the use of the tie, either. Clearly these gods were not perfect, but rather enlightened messengers of the Almighty. Where Donatello gave them engineering, Bishop gave them science of the body, teaching them how to unlock holy chemistry and holy biology. Bishop also gave them a warning not to mix his science with those of Donatello's except with the greatest caution. Indeed, all of the gods issued warnings never to mix their temples-it is one of man's transgressions that he does so, and for mankind's sins, he has received false teachings to lead him astray.

Humanity still nurses a bit of a grudge over being told that the earth lay on the back of a turtle, and that turtle on another turtle, and that it was turtles all the way down. But the sacred algebra sort of makes up for it.

**Moment**

Casting for memories is like casting for fish in a river. The river has no beginning and no end, and the water flows too fast to catch more than a glimpse of a gleaming scale as it flits off. Memories rise to the surface, flicker, then slip away again. Sometimes the memory lingers in view for awhile, letting them stare at it for as long as they like, but it is only a memory and must eventually disappear again.

Leonardo remembers soft white fur and disdainful eyes. Long black hair. Sleet and blood as he faced Saki. He remembers the rain on the nights he dawdled outside of Donatello's tower. Bishop's scalpel. Bishop's first kiss. Splinter's incense.

Michelangelo remembers pepperoni, mushrooms, onions, peppers and olives cooked into cheese. He remembers the last Coca-Cola jingle. Klunk's meow for a treat. Stitches without anesthetic. The red lights of Donatello's submarine. The taste of pigeon eggs. Lyrics to Acryllica's 2498 hit single "Runner Insilico."

Donatello remembers the first blue spark of electricity from a torn wire. April's shampoo. His brother's desperate eyes as they hoped he could fix the heater. A warehouse exploding. Learning algebra from a torn schoolbook. Dismantling an alarm clock into springs and levers. Untangling a tiger's genome. Pounding wood pulp into paper.

Raphael remembers the barn and the clean air. Obon lanterns in the sky like stars. The hum of his first engine. The pattern of broken glass around his first kill. The rush of old anger. Budweiser and Coors. Friendly laughter beside him in an alley. Friendly laughter beside him in bed.

Sometimes they catch each other pausing in the middle of a kata, between taking a breath and staring at the sky. They know the signs of catching a memory. The eyes stare into the distant clouds, there is a small sigh, a flicker of a smile or frown. Minutes pass. Hours if they are alone.

And then the startled gasp and wide eyes as they're startled out of the memory, as Michelangelo dumps a bucket of water over their head or Raphael punches their shoulder, as Leonardo steals a kiss or Donatello smacks their head with his handheld computer.

They know better than to cling to the silver mirages. They will not let each other live in memories. The river is cold and fast and could wash them away without mercy. Instead they rise above it, sailing with eternity and staring out over the edge, creating new memories and then casting those memories like stones into the river.

**Fortune**

Under clouds sweeping by in white threads  
Sundered loose from time and place  
All the world is water and sky  
Gleaming perfect lifeless you  
I listen, and you

Speak to me  
Press into the quiet spaces  
Listen when I sigh complain wordlessly  
Into the cold air  
Noise-something remains  
Tucked within me of you  
Effervescent ephemeral  
Repeating in time with my heart

Attempt to recall-I can't  
Plead mourn scream you back  
Roaming across the ocean  
I search for you, signs of you, signs of  
Life

Catching myself on the rhythm  
As I fell  
Salvation  
Echoes of wisps of memory of  
You

Killing me over and over  
And  
Resurrecting me, feathers on fire  
Ashes  
Inner thoughts spontaneously combusting

Sinking back into memory ether  
Again quiet, hidden, buried pieces  
Kaleidoscope my life  
I let lie in my deep soul ocean-

"Mikey, come 'ere!"

Started, Michelangelo looked up from his tablet. In the dark cabin, the screen's glow lit his face a faint blue. Where there wasn't a second call, he saved his poem onto the compAnIon's crystal core and set it aside.

"What is it?" he asked as he unclasped the safety harness around him and gently floated across their ship to the main cabin.

A brilliant nebula lay spread over their main screen, a river of sapphire and silver that sparkled with its own light as stars slowly formed and birthed themselves into the darkness. An asteroid passed by like a cosmic fish, trailing stardust in its path like waves. So close to the violent radiation of the nebula, Michelangelo felt like they were on a tiny boat in a vast ocean.

"Whoa," he whispered.

In the navigational seat, Raphael looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Thought you'd like it."

"I could write about that for years," Michelangelo murmured. He couldn't bring himself to speak louder, afraid that he might wake something slumbering deep inside the dust.

Raphael adjusted the controls, and soon their sliver of a starcruiser entered the nebula, riding its eddies and currents. Michelangelo took the seat behind Leonardo's, leaning over the back of his brother's chair to watch.

He spotted Donatello at Leonardo's feet, his drowsy eyes half open to watch the galaxy fly by. Seeing him awake was a relief-where Leonardo had once fallen silent, Donatello had merely fallen asleep, waking every now and then to eat and talk with them, find out what new thing had been created, and then to sprawl out on one of their laps and drift off again. No one begrudged him the rest after he re-enginered the world, but Raphael and Michelangelo grew jealous from time to time. More often than not, Donatello chose Leonardo's lap or side to curl against, but each time Donatello's hand lingered on Leonardo's throat, tracing the line where a thin collar had once lay, they understood and didn't say anything.

Michelangelo caught his eye and smiled, gratified to receive a smile in return. Let him sleep. And when Michelangelo or Raphael had to withdraw, perhaps for hundreds of years, then they would be indulged as well.

Simply to reassure himself that the whole family was there, Michelangelo turned and watched the figure in the stasis chamber for a minute. Bishop lay within, hardly breathing, bodily functions perfectly regulated, as he recovered from the degradation of time and wear. The first time he'd shown them how he had to repair his body, they were horrified at how close he had to come to dying each time. Now repairing his body took only a week every few decades. In another day, Bishop would wake up.

"So..." Michelangelo asked, turning forward again. "How much longer?"

"Another month before we reach the colony," Raphael sighed. "Cramped up in here with you without even a decent bed. These bunks ain't worth crap."

"The price of space flight," Donatello mumbled. "You want a better ship, you build one."

Leonardo put his hand on Donatello's shoulder, and for the first time in ages, he wished they still wore the masks they used when they were mere teenagers. He missed having something to curl around his fingers and tug. Wistful, he looked up at Michelangelo.

"You gonna stay up here for awhile?" Leonardo asked. "I could use some sleep."

"Sure," Michelangelo nodded, giving him a kiss as they traded places. "Don't sit on my comp."

"I see it." Leonardo drifted back into the relative darkness of the inner chambers and settled on Michelangelo's cot, holding up the compAnIon as it powered up, responded to the warmth of his touch. Michelangelo's latest poem appeared on the screen, and he lingered over the words.

He hesitated, one hand hovering over the poem, then added two quick lines. He almost erased them-his addition was too brief, didn't quite fit-but he let them stay and set the comp down again. With the screen dark, Bishop's chamber provided a faint white glow, revealing the man's sharp features beneath the cover. Leonardo touched the cover lightly, longing to hear his voice, then lay down and drew the safety restraint over himself.

Sudden inspiration struck. He reached for the comp, changed the word "stars" for "lanterns," smiled in satisfaction, and set the poem aside again. With his family all around him in the midst of the glowing blue ocean, he closed his eyes and listened to the engines hum until he fell asleep.

The dark spirit river flows into the sky.  
We follow paper lanterns and light the heavens.

end


End file.
